


To claim a kingdom

by aleciamariana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleciamariana/pseuds/aleciamariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen-year old Sansa Stark travels North with her loyal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, to claim her birthright as a Stark.  Will she be able to defend her claim against rival claimants and become the first ruling Lady of Winterfell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa heard the wind howling through the darkness like a wolf.  She wrapped herself more tightly into the plain woolen cloak and leaned back against the Hound, shivering slightly.  He seemed not to notice her as they rode wearily towards the center of the village.  
   
It had been nearly a week since she had encountered him on the Quiet Isle.  Ser Shadrich had brought her in with her hands bound, stopping on his way to King’s Landing to deliver her to the queen.  The Elder Brother had insisted that their prisoner be untied and that she stay in the women’s apartments.  When Sansa had seen Sandor, she immediately recognized him despite the scarf covering his face.  That night, she went to his room and threw herself to the ground at his feet.  
   
Sansa shifted uncomfortably on the horse, remembering the sight of Ser Shadrich’s body.  It still made her feel vaguely ill. The Elder Brother had not seemed pleased by the turn of events either.  Sandor had only given her a black look when she asked what the Elder Brother had said to him, and refused to respond.  
   
“Here we are,” the Hound rasped.  She looked up and saw the lights of the inn.  Sandor Clegane lifted her lightly from the horse, setting her on the ground.  “I’ll take care of the horse,” he rumbled, “and you go in and hire the room.”  Sansa nodded, understanding.  _The Butcher of Saltpans cannot let his face be seen here._  
   
 Entering the inn, she saw that the common room was full.  Heads turned to look at her as she blew in with a gust of wind, and then turned back to what they were doing.  The innkeep, a fat, jolly looking woman, bustled up to her.  
   
“Will m’lady be wanting a room and a hot meal?” the woman asked her.  “We’ve only one room left, but I can have a straw pallet fixed up for your guard in the stables.  Two coppers for the night, including the room and a meal for you both.”  
   
 _The Hound cannot sleep in the stables tonight.  It is too risky.  His face might be seen._ She made herself smile at the woman.  “The room will be sufficient but it is too cold outside for my guard.  You can have that straw pallet fixed up in my room and send food and a flagon of wine up as well.  We will take our meal there.”  
   
The woman eyed Sansa in a speculative way that made her face color but nodded. “As you ask, m’lady.”  She caught the arm of a passing girl.  “Claire, show the Lady…” she paused, looking at Sansa.  “Catelyn,” Sansa said, thinking quickly.  “Catelyn Snow.”  She felt a sudden chill, thinking of her bastard brother Jon at the Wall, but the woman only nodded.  “Show the Lady Catelyn to her room and have a straw pallet fixed up for her guard.”  
   
The girl nodded quietly.  “This way, m’lady.”  Sansa followed her through the hallway, blushing at the thoughts she knew were going through the minds of the girl and innkeep.  She was uncertain how the Hound would take the sleeping arrangements as well.  They had been camping outside every night so far and Sansa had finally pleaded with him to go to the inn this night.  Her body was sore and aching and she longed for a proper bed and a filling meal.  And a bath… the last time she had bathed was on the Quiet Isle and she felt grimy.   
   
She stood in the center of the room, looking around.  It was a nice one, with a small fireplace, a large  
soft feather bed, a table with two chairs, and a small adjoining room with a tub that had water piped in.  She turned the pipe to test the water and found it warm, to her delight.  _A hot bath… for both of us.  The Hound smells like his horse too._  
   
The door creaking made her jerk nervously, but it was only the girl Claire with a covered platter of food and the promised flagon of wine.  Sansa turned to her with a soothing smile.  “Claire, can I give you our garments for the laundry service or is it too late to include them?”  
   
“The girl in the village does our wash at night, m’lady.  I’ll be delivering everything to her in an hour.  If you give me the garments now, I can include them.  It’ll cost though… she charges a copper per garment, and two for cloaks and the like.”  Sansa frowned.  It seemed high to her, but she was desperate for clean clothing that didn’t smell of horse and sweat.  She had very few extra garments, but Shadrich had caught her when she was trying to escape the Vale and thus she had two extra dresses, smallclothes, and some money that she had sewn into the lining of her dress alongside Lady Lysa’s jewels.  Wordlessly, she handed Claire the bundle that contained her extra clothes as well as the Hound’s.   
   
That was the moment the Hound chose to enter the room, his face still wrapped in the scarf.  The girl gave a squeak and slipped out hastily, closing the door behind her.  
   
“Lady _Catelyn?”_ he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.  “My mother’s name,” Sansa responded.  “I could hardly use my own.”  Sandor only nodded, and then his gaze slipped away from her, taking in the room until it finally landed first on the bed, then the straw pallet, then on Sansa herself again.  She felt herself turning red.   
   
“I could hardly leave you in the stables,” she said abruptly.  “Too much chance of you being recognized.”  She could not read his expression and he only gave a short nod and sat at the table.   
   
They ate in silence.  Sansa quietly poured wine for them both before she hungrily tore into her part of the meal.  The money they had was too dear to spend recklessly, so the meal was simple – a lentil soup that was thick with vegetables but none of the spices that Sansa was accustomed to eating.  She thought suddenly of the dishes at Joffrey’s wedding feast, spiced with nutmeg and saffron and cinnamon and salt, and then remembered Joff’s face, blackening as he clawed at his throat.  The memory made goose flesh rise on her arms, and Sansa shivered.  
   
Sandor was looking at her silently and Sansa suddenly remembered how he kissed her the night he came to her room as the world burned around them.  She felt flushed all over.  _I should have gone with him then._ The thought made her feel strangely lightheaded and she stood up sudenly.  
   
“I am going to take a bath,” she declared, “and after that you can take one as well.”  He said nothing, only arching a brow at her again, and Sansa felt herself turn redder.  She went to the bag that he had brought in with their remaining garments and picked through them, taking out a pretty pale blue silk shift and a grey silk robe embroidered with direwolves.  Littlefinger had had it made for her, and it reminded her too much of Winterfell to leave behind.  She felt the Hound’s eyes still on her as she slipped through the door into the washroom.  
   
Once in the safety of the adjoining room, and away from Sandor’s persistent gaze, Sansa stripped off her clothes and sank into the warmth of the tub with a sigh.  _I have not felt this good in so long._ She sniffed at the soap suspiciously and identified it as lavender, before she began to scrub.  When she was all clean, she drained out the dirty water and then refilled it again, despite flinching at the the waste.  She lay back and took a small sip of the wine in her glass, wriggling her toes.  Somehow, she felt reluctant to go back out again but she knew she must.  _The Hound will be wanting to bathe as well._  
   
She quickly dressed, luxuriating in the feeling of the silk shift and smallclothes.  She had not worn anything besides pure wool the days and nights on the road and the silk made her feel beautiful again, like Sansa Stark of Winterfell.    _I am a wolf,_ she reminded herself. She did not feel very wolfish, only tired and sore from her travels.   
   
When the door opened, Sandor Clegane looked up.  His eyes were hot upon her and Sansa suddenly felt faint.  “You can take your bath now,” she said weakly.  He said nothing, only standing and brushing quickly past her, the door slamming behind him.  Sansa sat down on the edge of the bed and began to brush her hair.  It was a soothing bedtime ritual, even now that she no longer had a maid to do it for her. She thought suddenly of her mother, brushing her hair at night and singing softly and then found herself blinking back tears.  
   
 _He wants to kiss me again.  I know he does._ But did she want him to kiss her?  Sansa felt weak, remembering how it felt when his cruel mouth came down on hers.  She thought suddenly of his big hands and imagined what they would feel like on her body.  She sank back down onto the feather bed breathlessly, closing her eyes.  
   
The door opened and Sansa came flying up, stumbling and nearly falling to the ground in her haste.  The Hound was staring at her and she turned red all over again.  “I-I…” she stammered.  “You scared me!”  Sandor gave a rasping laugh, but he didn’t move.  His eyes were fixed on her body, and when Sansa looked down she realized that her robe had come open and her legs and cleavage were clearly visible.  Blushing, she pulled the robe closed and studied her feet.  Sandor sat down at the table and poured himself another glass of wine.  
   
“So, what’s the plan, little bird?” he rasped at her.  Sansa frowned at him.   
   
“What plan, my lord?”   
   
He glared at her but didn’t bother rising to the bait.  “Where are we _going_ , little bird?” he growled.  “We’ve been on the road for a week.  Surely you plan for us to go somewhere, or are you waiting to be caught by Lannisters?”  
   
Sansa flushed angrily and then suddenly shuddered, gooseflesh rising on her body.  And then, before she realized it, she had begun to cry.  She curled up in the fetal position, wrapping her arms protectively around her knees, and began shaking with silent tears.  The Hound watched her, alarmed.  
   
“Little bird…” he rasped, and before she knew it he had lifted her up and wrapped his arms around her.  She was trembling against him as her tears soaked the front of his jerkin.  Sansa could not remember the last time she had cried and it was as though floodgates opened and a river of tears came pouring out.  
   
At last, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and sat up.  Her head felt strangely clearer and the tension that was in her body had relaxed.  “Winterfell,” she said at last.    
   
Sandor Clegane frowned at her. “Winterfell’s a burnt out ruin,” he growled.  “The North is crawling with Freys, and Boltons, and wildlings are on the rampage!  There are…”  Sansa held up her hand, cutting him off.  
   
“There are still loyal lords,” she said quietly.  “Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, the hill tribes, and others.  I am a Stark of Winterfell, and the lady of Winterfell now.  We’ll travel north tomorrow.”     
   
Sandor glared at her before taking a swallow of his wine.  He stood, looming over her in the darkness.  Sansa lifted her chin and met his eyes, coldly.  _I am a wolf,_ she thought again, _and I will go home._  
   
Sandor turned away from her and blew out the candle.  The set of his shoulders, the sudden anger in his eyes, the way he dropped down heavily onto the straw pallet, all let Sansa know his opinion of their destination.  But she didn’t care.  
   
“Very well, little bird,” he snarled.  “We’ll travel North at _dawn_ tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor suddenly pulled up on Stranger’s reins, jolting Sansa out of her doze.  She looked up sleepily and then realized that a man was standing directly in front of them, framed by the dawning sun.  Behind him stood an archer with a drawn bow.  All around them, men were emerging from the brush.  Sandor had drawn his sword.  
   
“Well, hello again, Clegane,” the man grinned.  “Bet you didn’t think you’d see us again, did you?”  His fingers clenched and unclenched at the front of his dirty yellow cloak.  
   
Behind her, Sandor laughed harshly.  “Bugger that,” he snarled.  “You’re like rats, always where you aren’t wanted.  Unless you’ve come to give me back the gold you stole?”  He laughed again, hard and angry.  
   
The man in the yellow cloak threw his head back and laughed.  “Who’s the whore?” he asked, jerking his head towards Sansa.  She stiffened with fear.  
   
Sandor’s mouth twitched.  “No one you need concern yourself with,” he rasped. Sansa felt his arm tighten protectively around her.   
   
The archer gestured with his bow.  “Get down from the horse,” he ordered, “both of you.”   
   
Sandor swung down from the horse, before he lifted Sansa down lightly.  He wrapped his arm around Sansa’s shoulders, pulling her tightly against him.  Sansa felt herself trembling, and she slipped her arm around Sandor’s waist, clinging to him.  
   
“What’s your name, girl?” the archer asked Sansa. Her face was colorless, but she straightened to face him.  “Catelyn Snow,” she said softly.  The man in the yellow cloak laughed again.  
   
“Priceless!  Lady Stoneheart will _love_ this.  Where did you find your Northern whore, Clegane?”   
   
Sandor glared and tightened his hand on Sansa’s shoulders.  The archer, the only other man who seemed capable of speech, spoke up.  “Shut up Lem, and leave the girl alone.”  He turned towards them, gesturing again with his bow.  “You two.  Move.  Clegane, lead that hellhorse of yours.”  
   
Releasing Sansa’s shoulders, Sandor reached up to take Stranger’s reins.  She took hold of his free hand, her nails biting deeply into the flesh.  He squeezed her hand reassuringly, but said nothing.  With the archer behind them, bow trained on Sandor, and surrounded by all the ragged men who had emerged from the forest, they began to walk.  
   
They walked for hours, until Sansa’s thighs were sore and she swayed with exhaustion.  Sandor slipped his arm around her shoulders again, partially supporting her weight, ignoring the jeers of the man in the yellow cloak.  Periodically, they passed bodies hanging from trees that had reached various points of decomposition.  Some were no more than skeletons.   
   
At last they reached a small grove in the woods.  “Tie that horse,” ordered the archer.  “Girl, sit down there.”  Sansa moved to the large rock he indicated and sat, arranging her lavender woolen skirts neatly about her and then pulling her grey wool cloak about her shoulders.  At that point, she saw it.  
   
A man’s body swung from the tree.  There were differences, of course.  His right arm ended only in a stump, there were lines on his face that Sansa did not remember, and an apple was shoved in between his teeth.  Nonetheless, Sansa would recognize that long, blond hair and that face – so often smirking when she had seen it – anywhere.  
   
“The _Kingslayer!_ ” Sansa gasped, her hand going to her mouth. She remembered suddenly that day in King’s Landing, when her father had gone out – and returned with a broken leg.  _He killed Jory_.  She thought of playing with Arya in the snow at Winterfell, how she chased Arya around the outhouses throwing snow, and Jory had come and pulled them apart.  She fixed the corpse with an icy gaze.   
   
Sandor didn’t follow her trail of thought.  He glanced up at the swinging corpse, and said “Bloody end for a lion, at the end of a rope.”  
   
The man in the yellow cloak laughed.  “It’ll be the way you two end as well, just as soon as she comes to pass judgment.”  
   
“She?” Sansa asked, raising an eyebrow.  The man laughed again.  
   
“Lady Stoneheart.  Mother Merciless, some call her.  They killed her son before they killed her, and all mercy died with her.”  He grinned at Sansa, revealing a missing tooth.  
   
At that moment, a sudden silence came over the group in the grove.  Sansa looked up and saw Harwin.  _My father’s man._ She stood up hurriedly, and then she saw her.  
   
The woman that Harwin was escorting looked half rotted.  Hair was missing in clumps where it had fallen out, her skin was soft and melted looking.  A long, deep, gash traced her neckline from ear to ear.  Her eyes were two glowing embers within deep pits and they were fixed on Sansa.  
   
“Seven bloody buggering hells,” the Hound whispered.  
   
“ _Mother!”_ Sansa gasped.  She backed up three steps before her body slammed into Sandor. The men stared at her, and the silence was broken by Harwin.  
   
“Little _Sansa!”_ he whispered.  “Is it truly you?”   
   
Sansa swooned.  
   
***  
When her eyes opened, she was laying half across the lap of a strange woman who had one side of her face bandaged.  The laces of her bodice had been loosened, and the woman was washing her face with water.  Harwin was kneeling on her other side.  
   
“Lady Sansa!”  the woman whispered.  “I was looking for you for so long – the Elder Brother _lied_ to me.  He said that man was dead and that he never had you…”  Sansa gasped suddenly.  
   
“The Hound,” she said, the words spilling out of her.  “Where is he?  What have you _done_ to him?”   
   
The woman and Harwin exchanged a look that seemed somehow significant, but Sansa was too panicked to pay attention.  “Nothing, my lady,” Harwin said.  “We’ve done nothing to him yet.  Has he…” Harwin paused, delicately, “harmed you in any way?”  
   
“No!” Sansa exclaimed.  “He has not _harmed_ me.  He saved my life, when they meant to take me back to King’s Landing for the queen.  He is taking me to _Winterfell!_ ”  Her voice was rising, and she took a deep breath.  Her laces felt too tight.   
   
“Shh,” the woman said, rubbing Sansa’s shoulders.  “It’s all right.  Nothing will happen to him if you don’t wish it.”  Sansa looked up at the woman, looked her full in the face.  She realized that the woman was unusually muscled, with straw blond hair and clear blue eyes.  A sword was strapped across her shoulders.  _Is she a knight?  Women can’t be knights…_ then Sansa remembered.  
   
“Mother!”  she said.  “What has happened to my mother, she’s _dead…”_ Harwin and the woman exchanged another look.  
   
“Lady Sansa,” Harwin said quietly, your mother did die at the Trident, tis true… but she was pulled from the river and received the kiss of life.”  Sansa stared at him, stupidly.  Harwin sighed, and then rummaged in his knapsack.  Taking out a small flagon of wine, he poured a cup and handed it to Sansa.  
   
“Drink this, my lady, and I’ll explain everything.  
   
***  
Sansa confronted the _thing_ that had once been her mother.  Bile rose in her throat, and she forced it down.  _Courtesy is a lady’s armor,_ she reminded herself.  She did not know what to think of Catelyn Stark’s resurrection, or how to respond to her revenant.  Sandor stood behind her, his sword strapped at his waist.  The men of the so-called Brotherhood without Banners had rushed to restore Sandor’s sword and armor at Sansa’s command.  
   
She had not been pleased to see Podrick Payne there, either.  He had run to fall to his knees in front of her and she flinched, instinctively looking about for Tyrion.  When the first words out of Pod’s mouth had been to ask her if she knew where Tyrion was, she forced herself to smile at him as she responded.   
   
The shade of Catelyn Stark pressed its fingers to its throat and made croaking sounds.  Harwin interpreted.  
   
“She wonders, Lady Sansa, where you are going now and why you are in the company of a Lannister dog.  She also asks where Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, is.”  
Sansa took a deep, slow breath.  _Courtesy is a lady’s armor._  
   
“I am not in the company of a Lannister dog, Harwin, but a Stark man.  He is the commander of my guard, or will be, when we arrive at Winterfell.  I plan to claim the North for House Stark.”  _Calm,_ she reminded herself, _stay calm and composed._  
   
“As for the whereabouts of Tyrion Lannister, I do not know where he is nor do I wish to know.  I have not seen him since the night of Joffrey’s wedding, when Tyrion had him poisoned.”  She felt Sandor’s eyes burning into the back of her neck, but he said not a word.  _Clean hands, sweetling, always keep your hands clean._  
   
The creature in front of her croaked again.   
   
“How did you come to escape that night, my lady?” Harwin asked her.   
   
“Lord Baelish had his man, Ser Dontos, kidnap me,” Sansa responded.  “He took me to the Vale, where he murdered my aunt, the Lady Lysa.”  
   
“Where is Ser Dontos now?” asked the Lady Brienne.   
   
“Lord Baelish murdered him, too.”  
   
The shade of Catelyn Stark studied her through those burning eyes.  Sansa forced herself to stay calm beneath her gaze.  At last the creature nodded, and croaked again.  
   
One of the men left the grove, returning momentarily with a wrapped bundle.  He handed it to the Lady Catelyn.  “Come here, Lady Sansa,” said Harwin.  
   
When the wrappings of the package fell away, there were two objects within.  The first was a crown, a bronze circlet ringed by iron swords.  The second… the second was a Valyrian steel sword.  A lion was on the hilt with rubies for eyes, and the blade ran red.  Behind her, Sandor drew a sharp breath.  
   
“Your brother’s crown,” said Harwin, “and your father’s sword.  Or what remains of it, after the Lannister bastards put their hands on it.”  He gave a sharp laugh.  “The Lannisters have no honor.”  
   
Sansa lifted the sword and studied it closely.  It was a monstrosity of poor taste, she thought scornfully.  “This is twin to the sword Joffrey received as his wedding gift from the Lord Tywin,” she said softly.  “How did you come by this?”   
   
The man in the yellow cloak laughed again.  “The Kingslayer’s whore brought it with her.”  
   
Harwin frowned.  “Don’t talk thus before Her Grace, Lem.”  
   
Sansa turned to face Lady Brienne, ignoring the vulgarity.  “You,” she said, beckoning.  “How did you come by this?”   
   
Brienne’s face flushed.  “Ser Jaime,” she said.  “He didn’t want it and he gave it to me.  He said that I could guard Ned Stark’s daughters with Ned Stark’s steel.”  Sansa eyed her suspiciously, but said nothing.   
   
The creature that had once been Catelyn Stark lifted the crown.  Stepping close to Sansa, she croaked again.  “She asks for you to kneel,” Harwin said.  Sansa frowned, looking unhappily down at the mud that would dirty her dress, but quietly knelt.  The revenant placed her hand on Sansa’s head, croaking out words that Sansa recognized as a blessing, before placing the crown on Sansa’s head.  The weight of the crown made Sansa’s neck ache, but she remained quiet.  Catelyn Stark’s shade took Sansa’s hands, tugging her to her feet.  Placing her hands on Sansa’s shoulders, she turned her to face the assembly.  This time, Sansa understood the croaked words.  
   
“The Queen of Winter!” the creature proclaimed.  
   
All around her, everyone went to their knees.  
   
***  
When Sansa and Sandor left that day, they had company.  With them rode the Lady Brienne, her man Ser Hyle Hunt, and Brienne’s young squire Podrick Payne.  They rode North, for Winterfell.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor sat in the inn’s empty common room, drinking wine with Ser Hyle. He had his hood pulled forward to veil his face, in case anyone chanced to come in.  While they had not chosen to clue the innkeep in on the identity of his guests, the man had strong suspicions and a tendency to bow and scrape whenever Sansa came into view.  He was not the only one of the villagers with suspicions, and Sandor was growing more concerned about word of their presence getting out daily.  He had argued in favor of proceeding North without delay, but Lady Brienne had won that argument.  
  
Sandor snarled silently, thinking of that big freakish woman. He took a swallow of wine, and thought how good it would feel to hit something. _Preferably that freak._  
  
“What’s wrong?” asked Ser Hyle.  
  
“Just itching to be on the road,” Sandor grumbled. Hyle gave an understanding nod, before gulping ale. Sandor tried not to glare too resentfully at him, burying his face into the tumbler of wine.  
  
Nothing had been the same between him and Sansa after they left the Brotherhood without Banners and the hollow-eyed creature that had once been Catelyn Stark. The crown and the sword had been carefully packed away in a saddlebag, and the Brotherhood had given Sansa 5,000 golden dragons _. A fortune that was likely robbed off some other poor sod._ Sandor’s mouth twitched and he took another deep swallow of wine.  
  
Three of those dragons had gone to buy Sansa her own horse and tack, which meant that she was no longer riding pillion with Sandor.  He had _liked_ the feeling of her body against his when she rode in front of him, especially when she would lean back against his chest and doze off. Sometimes he would give Stranger his head, and then fantasize about the girl in front of him. If she did not seem so nervous every time he looked at her, he would have taken her by now. _But she is still afraid of me. And now the freak is playing chaperone._ His mouth twitched again.  
  
Then Brienne had insisted on staying in this town. She had gone through all of Sansa’s traveling clothes and judged them inadequate.  
  
“If Her Grace is to ride North as a queen, then she must look like a queen,” Brienne had said. “A scraggly girl in worn and ragged dresses, who must get even her clothes as charity from the Northern lords, will not inspire anyone to follow her but only to use her.” Sansa, damn her soul to all seven hells, had listened.  
  
Two riding dresses had been ordered, made of a fine, expensive wool. The first was lavender and the second was a rich blue. Both dresses had intricate embroidery all about the neckline, hem and sleeves.  
  
Three formal dresses had been ordered. One was a deep blue damask, trimmed with Myrish lace. The second was in Stark colors, a beautiful grey dress slashed with white. Sansa had given instructions for direwolves to be embroidered all about the neckline and hem of the dress. The third was elegant in Tully red and blue, with leaping trout embellishing the bodice.     
  
Then, there were the everyday woolen dresses. Sansa had ordered two of these as well, and they were just as fine as the riding gowns. She had ordered calfskin boots and elegant heeled shoes, belts, a fine woolen cloak trimmed with fur, as well as silk stockings and undergarments. She already had jewelry that she had taken when she fled the Vale, but nonetheless had not been able to resist temptation and had purchased a pair of heavy gold and onyx bracelets. Sandor’s mouth twitched again as he remembered the three golden dragons that Sansa had handed over for those bracelets. _They cost as much as her horse!_  
  
Not only that, but she had given instructions for new clothes for all of her guardsmen. Sandor, Brienne, Hyle, and Pod each had two sets of warm woolen clothing made, and heavy woolen surcoats with a direwolf badge on the chest. Boots, too.  
  
Every last one of the local smallfolk knew full well who Sansa was, Sandor was sure of it. Nobody had told them, but even illiterate smallfolk were not so stupid as to miss what was before their faces.  “Lady Catelyn” might claim to have been born on the wrong side of the sheets, but the Northern accent, the profligate way she spent her coin, the fine clothes, and the direwolf embroidery all screamed her identity to anyone not blind.  Sandor had carefully kept his own face covered with a scarf, knowing that the Lannisters would bring him to justice for crimes he was both guilty and innocent of, but Sansa was worth a fortune to the man who turned her in.  Every passing hour in this village heightened Sandor’s anxiety and desire to leave.   
  
The door to the inn opened and the women swept through. Sansa wore one of her new woolen dresses, a beautiful green dress that fitted her torso perfectly. Embroidered vines and pale pink flowers climbed her skirts. Her cheeks were flushed with cold, her hair tousled, her eyes sparkled, and Sandor thought that he had never seen anything so pretty in his life. Unfortunately, her prettiness was offset by the ever present Lady Brienne, who looked as freakish and unnatural as ever in her man’s clothes and armor.  
  
Sansa saw him first, and the women joined them at the table.  
  
“Will you pour me a glass of wine, Sandor?”  
  
Sandor poured wine into the extra glass and handed it to her. Sansa took a dainty sip and Brienne stared as disdainfully as ever at Sandor. Ser Hyle grinned roguishly at Brienne, who stared back with impassive features, though color had begun to rise in her cheeks. The knight was always flirting with the Lady Brienne to her great embarrassment, though she always spurned him.   
  
 _Tarth must be a fine castle for Hyle to make such a fool of himself for that freak. She’s more like a man than a woman._  
  
“We leave tomorrow,” Sansa said abruptly. “Lord Piper paid me a very surreptitious visit today. Or rather, his heir Ser Marq did.”  
  
Sandor glared at her. “I told you this would happen.”  
  
Sansa ignored him, and continued, “It was a very pleasant visit, truth be told. Ser Marq knelt and told me that House Piper is mine once I arrive with an army.” She took another sip of the wine. “Then he told me that the Lady Genna has heard rumors of our presence. His father immediately dispatched him to warn me.”  
  
Sandor’s mouth twitched angrily. _If she would have listened to reason…_  
  
“There’s more,” Sansa went on. “The Brotherhood without Banners has planned a raid on Riverrun.” She smiled. “They mean to clean out some lions and conduct a few hangings.”  
  
Ser Hyle stared at her. “The Riverlords are participating in this?” he asked soberly.  
  
“Yes,” Sansa said. “It seems the Lannisters have lost the favor of the Riverlands. Word of our dear Ser Jaime’s death reached the queen’s ears in King’s Landing. She has chosen to blame the Riverlords and responded by hanging all the hostages. Including my uncle Edmure, and his wife.”  
  
Sandor felt his mouth hanging open in shock. His expression was mirrored by Ser Hyle. It beggared belief that even the hotheaded Queen Cersei would do such a thing. _But she loved her brother dearly_ , he reminded himself. Their affair had been the best-known secret in King’s Landing.  
  
“I’m sorry, little bird,” he rasped. Sansa studied him, looking somewhat surprised.  
  
“I never met my uncle,” she said softly. “But now that he is dead, and the babe with Lady Roslin, Riverrun is mine. And with the hostages dead, the Riverlords want revenge. Lord Emmon and Lady Genna will pay for Lannister and Frey treachery in short order.”  
  
Brienne looked at Sansa. “In that case, my lady, why don’t we stay here a few more days? You still need a…”  
  
“Enough!” Sandor roared, coming to his feet with such force that the flagon of wine spilled over. The innkeeper turned to look, and Sandor lowered his voice.  “Have you lost your mind? Did you miss when she said that the Lannisters know that she’s here?!”  
  
Brienne flushed and rose angrily. “Did you miss when she said that the Brotherhood without Banners plan to hang Genna Lannister and Emmon Frey, _dog_?!”  
  
Sandor’s jaw tightened so hard that for a moment he feared something had broken. “And are you so stupid as to…”  
  
“Enough!” Sansa snapped. She moved to Sandor’s side.  He saw that Hyle had taken hold of Brienne’s arm.  
  
“This fighting helps nothing!” she exclaimed. “We leave tomorrow; I cannot stay here any longer. I have what I came for and I can buy what else I need when we reach Winterfell.“  
  
She exhaled loudly. “Brienne, Hyle, fetch Pod and begin to pack up and prepare to go. Sandor,” she tugged at his arm. “Come with me.”  
  
***  
Once they were alone in his room, Sansa turned to face him. “You let the Lady Brienne provoke you too much.”  
  
“What’s it to you, Your Grace?” Sandor snarled.  
  
“Everything,” Sansa said simply. “We are travelling together and I need you. When you two are going at each other, I can’t think straight.”  
  
“You don’t need me,” Sandor snapped. “You listen to everything she says. Three weeks we’ve been in this village, getting these clothes made. Sansa, the Lannisters have your scent now, because we’ve been here too long. If you hadn’t listened to that freak, we would be at Winterfell by now.”  
  
Sansa took a deep breath. _He is just angry, she thought. He doesn’t understand._  
  
“She was right, Sandor. I can’t show up in the North and call myself a queen, without looking the part.” She saw the black expression on his face, and held up her hand to forestall his mouth opening. “Do you think I trust her?” Sansa laughed.  
  
“I found that woman with the Brotherhood without Banners. She betrayed first my mother, then Ser Jaime. I only took her into my service because my mother asked me to do so. She has Tyrion’s squire serving her, Sandor, _Tyrion’s squire_! But I need her right now. I need her sword arm. I need a female chaperone. I cannot come North in the company of only one guardsman.”  
  
Sandor’s mouth had closed and he was looking at her pensively.  Sansa pressed the advantage. “I may not trust her, Sandor, but I do trust you. You were with me at King’s Landing. You hate the Lannisters as I do – I know you do. And you tried to take me with you, when you left.” Her voice softened slightly. “I would that I had gone with you then.”  
   
Sandor was staring at her.  Sansa blushed uncertainly, and then she reached up to put her arms around him, pulling his head down to her.   
   
She let out a soft gasp when his mouth came down on hers, hungry and rough.  It felt as good as she remembered.  Her arms tightened around him and then suddenly he lifted her up, hands sliding beneath her thighs.  Sansa blushed with sudden alarm.  
   
 _I can’t._  
   
Sansa broke off the kiss and squirmed against him.  Sandor set her down on the ground, and she swayed slightly.  He was flushed, she noted with satisfaction.  She would _not_ let him see how shaky she felt.  
   
“Good night, Sandor,” she said softly.  Sansa closed the door to his room firmly behind her, before leaning back against the wall to catch her breath.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa descended the steps quickly, lifting the skirts of her gown to keep from tripping on them.  Sandor and Brienne flanked her as she entered the great hall of Winterfell to face Lord Umber, Lord Glover, Lord Manderly and the men of the mountain clans.   
   
She looked every inch the queen, Sansa thought with satisfaction.  _Bless Brienne for making me stop in that village before we came North._ She would not face the Northern lords looking like a beggar.   
   
Today Sansa wore Stark colors.  Her dress was grey silk, slashed with white and embroidered with direwolves.  About her throat was a heavy strand of black pearls, with more pearls hanging from her ears.  The gold and onyx bracelets adorned her wrists.  Her beautiful auburn hair had been brushed until it shone, before her maid had arranged it in a series of complicated braids that lifted it off her neck.  Most important was Robb’s crown.  A simple copper circlet ringed by iron swords, the weight made Sansa’s neck ache.  But wear it, she did.  
   
The lords rose to their feet when Sansa entered the hall, before immediately going to their knees.  _They recognize me as their queen._ It was a satisfying thought, but she knew that she would have to move very carefully to hold her position.  Stannis was in the North with his red demon and the sorceress burning weirwoods.  Aegon Targaryen held Storm’s End, or so she had heard, and the Tyrells had marched out to meet him in battle.  Little Tommen had fled with his mother to Casterly Rock, and the Tyrells had seized Myrcella, married her to Willas, and declared her a queen.  And then, there were rumors of Daenerys Targaryen in the East, and her dragons…  
   
Sansa smiled.  “Rise, my lords.  Please, sit.”  She looked at young Beth, the ten year old girl Brienne had found to work as one of the new Winterfell servants.  “Beth, would you be so kind as to pour us some wine?”  
   
Beth, now well versed in her duties, served Sansa’s wine first.  When she had finished her work, she retreated to stand near the sideboard.  
   
Sansa turned to face Lord Umber.  “And how is your lady wife, my lord?” she asked with a charming smile.  He looked surprised.  “Unella does as well as always, Your Grace,” he said.  “She sends you her regards.”   
   
Sansa laughed, lightly.  “When we have settled this land, she will have to come to visit me at Winterfell.  Lord Manderly, I hope the Lady Wylla could join me as well.  Winterfell is so quiet these days, after what the Boltons and Theon Greyjoy did here.”  Her eyes shadowed for a moment, with sudden sorrow.  “It will take a great deal of work to bring it back to life again.”  
   
The lords looked at each other, and then Lord Manderly faced Sansa.  “Your Grace,” he said, “with your leave, I will be blunt.”   
   
Sansa spread her hands.  “Please do, my lord.”  
   
“Very well then.  Your Grace, you call yourself a queen and you call yourself a Stark.  Roose paraded his pretender before our eyes, and we know well that you are no pretender.  But you are a married woman, and…”  
   
Sansa’s eyes flashed anger and she held up her hand.  “Do _not_ speak to me of Tyrion Lannister, my lord.”  
   
“Of what else should I speak, Your Grace?  He has been spotted at the side of Daenerys Targaryen. “  
   
Sansa felt suddenly cold.  She took a swallow of wine and Lord Manderly took it as encouragement.  
   
“He also has a dragon, Your Grace.  We want nothing more than to see a Stark in Winterfell and to swear fealty to a Stark queen.  Trust me in this, Your Grace.  But if your marriage is allowed to stand, that sets Tyrion Lannister as lord of Winterfell.”  
   
The lords were all watching her face carefully.  Sansa carefully controlled her expressions.   
   
“Let the Imp come, my lords.”  She smiled, spreading her hands.  “Tyrion Lannister killed his king and killed his own father.  He is accursed.  I was forced into the marriage, as you well know.  I will not cede my rights because of abuses perpetrated against me.”  
   
Lord Glover spoke this time.  “Nobody wants that, Your Grace.  But nobody wants the Imp ruling Winterfell and the North.  And he has come with the Dragon Queen, and with a dragon…”  
   
Sansa’s face was cold, and when she spoke, a chill filled the room.  “I thank you for your concern, my lords.  The Imp will never rule Winterfell.  If he comes to claim me, he will die here.”   
   
The lords exchanged glances again.  This time, Lord Flint spoke up.  
   
“And well I believe it, Your Grace,” he said slowly.  “That would be for the best, truth be told.  His blood is not near enough to wash out the Northern blood spilled by the Lannisters.”  His eyes fixed Sansa’s, and suddenly she was reminded of a bird of prey, circling overhead.  “And then what, Your Grace, after he dies?”   
   
Sansa frowned, and suddenly felt a sense of vertigo.  _No, no, no.  Please, he cannot mean what I think._  
   
“And then _what,_ my lord?”  
   
The lords looked at each other again, and Lord Manderly was the first to speak.  
“You will want to wed again,” he said abruptly.  “With all due respect, Your Grace, you are a young and lovely woman.  You will not want to live alone, and you will need support to rule…”  
   
Sansa put her hand up again, eying him evenly.  _Careful, Sansa, careful._  
   
“You presume,” she said quietly, “to know what I want?”  
   
She had the satisfaction of seeing the men’s mouths gape wordlessly.  _I cannot allow them to gain the upper hand on this.  Nobody will ever be allowed to hurt me again._  
   
Before they could speak, she smiled again.  “My lords, I thank you for your concern.  The Imp might have been a _small_ man, but I feel no need to shop for a new husband before I rid myself of the first.  At the moment, the North has much larger concerns than who is in my bed.  Winter is here, the wildlings must be taken into hand soon, and the Boltons must be dealt with.  And you tell me of dragons.”  She stood and smoothed her skirts.  
   
“Come, my lords.  We will eat in the great hall this evening.  My steward has found me the most wonderful cook and he makes the most delightful lamb roast with raisins and apples.  Let us eat, and talk less of husbands and more of _wildlings._ ”   
   
The lords followed Sansa down the hallway.  Once they had settled in at the high table, she made a discreet motion of dismissal to Sandor and Brienne.  They would eat at a nearby table with the other guardsmen, and the lords would speak more freely outside of their presence.   
   
Sansa lifted the delicately worked silver wineglass.  “To the North, my lords!”  
   
Once they had all drunk, she set her glass down with affected cheer.  “Tell me of wildlings, my lords.”  
   
The lords were only too happy to oblige.  In outrage, they told her of the various depredations that the wildlings had committed since the death of her brother Jon, whom, they hastened to emphasize, was the one responsible for bringing them across the Wall.  Sansa listened attentively, clucked sympathetically as appropriate, and finally secured a promise from the five lords that they would serve as her embassy and bring the wildling leaders to meet with her.  
   
“We are not strong enough to force them back across the Wall,” she told them firmly.  “But if they plan to stay on this side, they must adhere to Northern law.  Bring me Tormund and Mance, and I will straighten them out.”  
   
Once the meal ended, Sansa accompanied the lords down to the courtyard.  They laughed and spoke of small things as the servants saddled up their horses and prepared Lord Manderly’s cart.  She was relieved to see their retreating backs, with Lady Brienne and Ser Hyle accompanying them.  
   
 _That’s one problem well on its way to being taken care of._  
   
Sansa was not pleased with the mess Jon had made, bringing the wildlings through the Wall.  It was now left to her to clean it up, and with ten thousand wildlings on the loose in the North, her choices were few and far between.  The wildlings negotiated from a position of strength that she did not yet have.  _But I will deal with that tomorrow._  
She turned and touched Sandor’s arm lightly.  “Will you accompany me upstairs?” she asked softly.   
   
Sandor nodded, looking surprised.  Sansa had not been alone with him since that day in the inn, when she had kissed him.  She took his proffered arm and together they walked through the castle in silence.  Once in Sansa’s sitting room, Sandor held her chair for her and accepted the chair across from her at her request.  Beth poured wine for them both before Sansa thanked her and dismissed her for the evening.  
   
Sansa looked at Sandor’s big hands, wrapped around his silver wineglass, and shivered.  She remembered suddenly how she had burned as he slid them down her thighs in the inn.  To take her mind off it, she asked him “What did you think, earlier?”  
   
Sandor frowned.  “Of the lords?”  At Sansa’s nod, he continued.  “They accept you as their queen, but they are uneasy about being ruled by a woman.  They want a Stark, but they want to see you marry one of them.  They don’t believe that you can manage the wildlings.  You had best step easy with them, Your Grace.”  
   
“Don’t call me that,” Sansa said absently.  “Well,” she amended, blushing, “in public you must.  But not here.”  She tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking.   
  
“I have to get this wildling problem under control, then.  If I can manage that, they will take me more seriously.  _Damn_ Jon for letting them through, Sandor!   Whatever was he…”  
   
A scream echoed through the darkness and Sansa broke off.  “What was that!”  
   
Sandor came to his feet.  “Stay here, little bird.” Sansa stared, aghast, as he charged out of the sitting room, running in the direction of the courtyard.  She came to her feet and went running after him.  
   
Down in the hallway, she found herself forcing her way through Winterfell’s smallfolk, screaming and running into the safety of the castle.  Sansa grabbed a woman by the arm, and shook her.  
  
“Tell me, Lidia, what has happened here?”   
   
The woman was hysterical with fear.  “A monster,” she gasped.  “There is a monster out there, and they can’t kill it!”   
   
Sansa released her, confused.  _A giant, perhaps.  Have the wildlings attacked?_  
   
She ran into the courtyard, and found herself in the midst of hell.  There was a clang of swords all about her.  Men in Lannister surcoats fought men in Stark surcoats.  And in the midst of them all, stood a familiar shadow in heavy stone armor.  _Is it Ser Gregor?  No, it couldn’t be, Ser Gregor is dead…_  
   
The monster saw her, and began to lumber in her direction.  Sansa was transfixed with by horror.  Out of nowhere, Sandor appeared.  His sword was swinging, yet the creature did not blink.  Steel flashed through the air to meet Sandor’s.  Nearby, Jem crumpled to the ground, blood seeping out to be absorbed by the thirsty earth.  _He was only a boy._ His killer, clad in a red and gold surcoat, turned to parry Emmon Snow’s blade.  Yet Sansa still stood in the doorway of the castle, mesmerized by the action unfolding before her.   
The creature’s sword met Sandor’s helm with a sickening crunch.  Sansa stared, aghast, as Sandor flew into the nearby wall.  The cracking sound of the impact resounded throughout the yard, and the creature turned in her direction.   
   
She turned and ran.  Lifting her skirts, she fled into the castle as though all the monsters from Old Nan’s tales were behind her.  She ran without thought, until she skidded into the great hall of Winterfell and realized that she was trapped.  _There is nowhere for me to go._  
   
Turning, Sansa faced the creature as it stepped through the door.  She grabbed the first thing to hand, a dagger that one of the guards had left behind, and flung it.  It flew past the monster and it continued to advance towards her.  Panicking, she grabbed a beautiful crystal decanter and threw it.  This time, her aim was true and it struck the creature in the middle of his dented helm to no discernible effect. Backing up, Sansa grabbed a torch.   
   
“Stay away from me!” she threatened.  Only the echo of advancing feet answered her.   
   
Sansa flung the torch, and watched wide-eyed as the creature suddenly went up in flames.  It was as though it had been soaked through in kerosene.  It was on its knees, horrifying screams emanating from it, as its arms batted uselessly in the air.   
   
Guardsmen in Stark surcoats burst through the door where they stopped, transfixed.  
   
***  
Sansa sat on the soft feather bed, and took a deep swallow of wine.  She had drunk three glasses of wine in quick succession and taken a hot bath, but nothing could stop the tremors that wracked her body.  _Cersei Lannister has not forgotten me._  
   
In her bones she knew that she would never be safe until Cersei and Tyrion were dead, until they swung from trees like their brother Jaime.  She did not know if she would ever feel safe after this attack.  Three guardsmen had died in the Lannister assault, and Sandor had been stunned but suffered no serious injury.  Sansa swallowed fretfully, remembering.  A rap on the door brought her out of her trance.   
   
“Come in!” she called, belting closed her silk robe.   
   
Sandor Clegane entered the room and closed the door behind him.  His eyes darted back and forth, never fixing on Sansa.  She smiled at him and raised her glass.  
   
“Here, Sandor, have some wine.  We can toast Cersei Lannister and her necromancers.  Sit with me.”  She patted the bed next to her.  _I am drunk,_ she thought, but the realization only served to make her laugh.  Sandor poured himself a glass and took a swallow, still not looking at her.  _He is as shaken up as I am,_ she thought.  
   
“Sit _down,_ I said!” she exclaimed.  Sandor sat next to her and took another deep swallow of wine.  Sansa giggled.   
   
“It is like being in Kings Landing again,” she said cheerfully.  “But this time, I invited you into my bed.”   
   
Sandor had begun to look alarmed.  “I should go, Your Grace,” he said, and began to stand.  Sansa grabbed his arm, and then giggled again.  
   
“I _told_ you not to call me that!”  She pouted before taking another, deeper drink of her wine. “Like I said, it is Kings Landing all over again. But this time, I’m not such a little bird anymore.”  She smiled at him.  “I sang for you that night, after you kissed me.  But not the song you wanted me to sing, do I have the right of it?  The song you still want me to sing?”   
   
A pantheon of expressions crossed Sandor’s face.  Confusion, dismay, and other emotions flickered across his face, so quickly that Sansa could barely recognize them.  She rose to her feet, and suddenly staggered.  Sandor caught her elbow, supporting her.  
   
Before she knew quite what she was doing, Sansa came down in his lap, kissing him.  Her lips softened and she tangled her hands in his hair almost roughly.  When she let go of him, she saw shock on his face.  
   
 _I don’t care.  I don’t care about any of it anymore._  
   
She stood up, swaying, and let the silk dressing robe fall off her shoulders, fluttering to the ground.  Beneath the robe she wore a beautiful periwinkle silk shift that had been trimmed with lace.  Tiny pink roses embellished the neckline.        
   
Sandor’s eyes stopped at her breasts, transfixed.  Sansa knew that she should feel shame but it was nowhere to be found.  Perhaps it had drowned sometime after the third glass of alcohol.  _Even Mother loved Lord Petyr before she met Father, and gave him her maidenhead.  Why shouldn’t I do the same?_  
   
“What are you doing, little bird?” he asked hoarsely.  
   
Sansa smiled at him.  “I thought you had more experience than I!”  
   
Her voice was playful, thickened slightly by wine and excitement.  Clambering into his lap, she reached up to kiss him again.  Sandor’s hands tangled in her hair almost painfully, pulling her head back to expose her neck.  When his ruined lips traveled down her throat, she shivered.  
   
By the time the straps of her shift fell away, Sansa had forgotten Cersei Lannister, had forgotten the undead abomination that had tried to kill her.  Her world had narrowed to Sandor, his scarred face buried between her breasts, his hands digging into her hamstring and buttock, the studded leather jerkin imprinting itself upon her abdomen.  She was twitching and gasping, but her involuntary struggles only seem to excite him more.   
  
He suddenly released her and Sansa fell backwards into the center of the bed.  She watched, wide-eyed, as he began removing his clothes. Tyrion Lannister was the only other man she had seen naked and she had trembled in terror throughout.  The sight of Sandor's large, muscled body made her feel weak and despite herself, she felt color rising in her cheeks.  He sat on the bed next to her and took hold of her hands.   
  
“Tell me the truth, little bird.  Are you still a maid?”   
  
Sansa blushed suddenly.  She nodded quickly before absorbing herself in studying the details of the little crinkles between her toes.  
  
“How could you tell?”  Sansa barely recognized her own voice, soft and shy.  Laughter rumbled deep within his chest as he pulled her closer.  
  
“Trust me, little bird, it wasn’t hard," he whispered into her neck, sliding a big hand between her legs.  
  
When Sandor finally covered her with his body, Sansa was slick with sweat.  She felt strangely exhilarated by the sheer _wrongness_ of the moment.  Suddenly, he pressed her thighs apart with his knees.   
  
When he entered her, Sansa heard herself scream.


	5. Chapter 5

Daenerys Targaryen drew in a deep breath.  _Calm,_ she thought to herself, _stay calm._ The man in front of her was the most hideous man she had ever seen.  Tyrion Lannister stood barely over three feet tall, with mismatched eyes and a missing nose.  The worst, however, was the grotesque syphilitic pustules that covered the lower part of his face. Dany pitied the woman he had found to warm his bed.  The Dornish pox was an unpleasant way to die.  
   
The Imp’s soul was just as ugly as his face.  He was known for molesting serving girls, grabbing their bottoms and propositioning them lewdly.  While he did not touch the noblewomen, he did have an unfortunate tendency to crack proposition them as well in a most perverse manner.  Uglier rumors had come to Dany’s ears, rumors she prayed were not true.  _If he had not tamed Rhaegal, I should have taken his head months ago._  
   
Within weeks of the Imp’s arrival at her court, he had offered her his tongue.  Dany did not fail to grasp the ribald meaning, and a dull anger had begun to build.  She was his queen, she quickly reminded him.  He should save his japes for those who would find them amusing, because she did not.  
   
The Stark girl had presented a huge problem for Dany.  She did not want to turn any woman over to the Imp, and especially not a woman he spoke of with such noxious hatred.  A little investigation had turned up all the details of the girl’s forced marriage and the story stirred pity in Dany’s heart.  _If my sun-and-stars had been a different man, I could have been the Lady Sansa._ She suppressed a shudder.  It had been her good fortune that Tyrion Lannister had not presented himself when Viserys was looking to retake his crown.  Viserys would not have quailed before tormenting her thus, she did not doubt it for an instant.  
   
But now Sansa Stark had reappeared in the North, calling herself a queen and wearing a crown.  She had met with the leaders of the wildlings and secured their oaths of fealty.  She had survived an attack on Winterfell that was likely masterminded by Cersei Lannister.  And the Imp loathed her with a passion.  
   
Dany found herself unable to feel much pity for Tyrion’s outrage over how Sansa had framed him for her murder, driving him into exile.  _He has little problem with abusing the innocent, and retreats back on righteous outrage when the innocent defend themselves,_ she thought.  But Tyrion’s fury did not come from Lady Sansa’s flight, nor even from her attempt to kill him all those years before.  
   
Rumors had reached their ears that Lady Sansa had taken a lover.  Sandor Clegane, known as the Butcher of the Saltpans, and a deserter from Joffrey’s Kingsguard.  For some reason Daenerys could not fathom, Sansa had named this man the captain of her guard.  He was said to be hideously disfigured, with terrible burn scars marring half of his face.  Dany did not know if she believed the story or not, but Tyrion believed it.  Once he had told Dany the story of his marriage rather sadly, reminiscing on Sansa’s infatuation on some boy called the Knight of Flowers.  “A tall man,” Tyrion had said, “and quite handsome.  All the girls at court were in love with him.”   
   
However, the Dornish pox had made his rages more frightening and his cruelty more pronounced.  His fury over the story of Sansa’s bodyguard was terrifying to behold.  Somehow, Dany did not think that Tyrion would be so angry if Sansa had taken a pretty man to her bed.   
   
“Your Grace,” the little man snarled, “I demand the return of my wife to me!”   
   
Dany raised her eyes to meet Tyrion’s.  His counsel and knowledge of warfare and the Westerosi Houses had been invaluable to her.  However much she despised the man, she could not alienate him over the Lady Sansa… and whatever the circumstances of her marriage, Sansa Stark was a traitor and a rebel, daughter and sister to traitors and rebels, a self-proclaimed queen.  Something in her quailed at the thought of turning a woman over to Tyrion and his irrational desire for revenge – but Sansa _was_ Tyrion’s wife, and it would solve her problem nicely.   
   
“Tell me, my lord,” Dany said, “why would you want an unwilling woman, a woman who hates you so much that she tried to kill you, returned to you?  You told me yourself that the marriage was never consummated.  Why not request an annulment and be done with it?”  She popped a fig into her mouth.  
   
Tyrion’s face twisted.  “That adulterous _whore,_ ” he spat out.  “She took a sacred vow before the gods and then she wasted no time in proving how much her vows meant to her.  I showed her every kindness imaginable, and still she betrayed me!”  
   
Dany popped another fig into her mouth and studied Tyrion as she chewed it.  _Quick to condemn her adultery,_ she thought, _yet he makes no mention of his own_.  What an odious little man.   
   
“How sacred can a vow made at swordpoint be, my lord?”   
   
“It was not made at _swordpoint,_ ” Tyrion spat at her.  “I gave her a choice.”  
   
Dany popped another fig into her mouth.  “Aye, you told me,” she said, chewing.  “You gave her the choice of wedding yourself or your cousin Lancel.  After she was brought to the sept under armed guard, no?”  She smiled innocently at Tyrion.  “And hadn’t she already made a betrothal of her own to Willas Tyrell?”   
   
The dwarf’s face twisted with rage until Dany feared the pustules on his face might begin to pop.  “The Lady Sansa is my _wife,_ ” he snarled.  “Any man who comes between us is accursed.  Would you risk the wrath of the gods, Your Grace?”  
   
“I am no man, my lord, merely a young girl.”  Dany reached across the tray of figs for her wineglass.  “But even a queen bows before the will of the gods.”  She waved her hand dismissively.  “You may seek out your wife.  But you may _not_ take Rhaegal.”  She held up her hand against Tyrion’s obvious anger.  
   
“No, my lord.  I will not see Winterfell attacked yet.  I want the Lady Sansa to swear fealty to the Iron Throne, and to me.  I am sure she has already heard the news of your dragon.  You may take a guard of twenty-five of my Unsullied.  They are fierce enough to stand against Lady Sansa’s Northmen, I am sure.  If she balks at the idea of swearing to the crown – you may remind her that we have dragons, and will not hesitate to deploy them against her.”   
   
Dany waved a dismissive hand at Tyrion.  She had no doubt that the dragons would be necessary.  _I would rather suffer dragonflame a million times over, than accept a man such as this in my bed._ She looked at Ser Barristan.   
   
“Well, my lord?” she asked, seeing the disapproval in his eyes.  
   
“Lady Sansa is Eddard Stark’s own daughter.  He risked Robert’s wrath, to speak up for you.”  
   
“Eddard Stark was a traitor and now his daughter is in open rebellion against me!”  Dany exhaled in frustration.  “She has left me little choice, my lord,” she said, softening her voice.  
   
“There is always a choice,” Ser Grandfather responded.   
   
Dany stood up suddenly, frustrated.  She longed for a cleansing bath, and the comfort of Daario’s arms.  “I think that I will go work alone in my chambers,” she said.   
   
***  
Dawn had not yet broken, yet Winterfell was abustle in preparation for a feast. Lord Manderly’s men had found little Rickon Stark with his direwolf, and he was even now en route to Winterfell.  Sansa could not be happier.  The embassy of Northern lords had brought back the wildling leaders.  When she met with Mance and Tormund, she had pledged to settle them on the lands in the New Gift, provided that they swear fealty to Winterfell and to her.  Despite some grumbling about “kneelers,” the men had knelt before her.  A week from today, she expected to receive some ten thousand wildlings at her doorstep who would repeat the vows of fealty.  
   
 _Thank the old gods and the new, Lord Stannis is dead._ By now the entire region had heard the story of how he and his sorceress had been fed to the dragons.  The Dragon Queen was in the North with Tyrion Lannister, and Sansa expected a visit any day now.  Sansa did not enjoy the thought of meeting the Targaryen dragons, or Tyrion.  She felt a tightening in her belly at the thought, and shivered.  
   
At that, Sandor Clegane wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.  Sansa giggled and then pillowed her head on his shoulder.  He ran his hand lightly across the curve of her hip, before sliding it up to toy with her breast.  
   
“Are you cold, little bird?” he asked her roughly.  
   
“No,” Sansa said softly.  “I am looking forward to the day.  Rickon returns, and…” her voice trailed off.  
   
“What do you mean to do with him?” Sandor asked her.  Sansa lifted her head.  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
“Well, in the normal course of things, Rickon would be heir to Robb,” Sandor said cautiously.  “I simply wondered if…”  
   
Sansa laughed, throwing back the bedcovers and hopping out of bed.  She padded lightly into the little sitting room where her maid had left a hot pot of tea and poured a cup for herself and for Sandor before returning to the bedroom.  
   
“You wonder,” she said evenly, “if I mean to proclaim Rickon king and myself his regent?”   
   
Sandor’s face was not so scarred that Sansa could not see the rising color.  He gave a jerky nod before taking a swallow of tea.  Sansa was well aware that Sandor would have preferred wine, but she refused to serve it at such an early hour in her bedchamber.  
   
Sansa laughed.  “I am the heir to Winterfell, Sandor,” she said quietly.  “I am a woman grown, and I suffered for years in Kings Landing at the hands of the Lannisters.  Everyone wanted my claim, and played me for a fool to get it.”  She took a sip of her tea.  “Now that I am in control of my life, and in control of my claim, I do not intend to relinquish it to the first heir in possession of a cock who appears on the scene.  I will find lands for Rickon.  I am thinking that I might grant him the Dreadfort, now that the Boltons are dead.  But Winterfell and Riverrun are mine.”  
   
Sandor looked at her closely.  “You’ve changed, little bird,” he rasped.  
   
“I had to change,” Sansa said shortly.  Getting out of bed, she went to dress herself for the day.  She planned to meet with Winterfell’s steward to review the tax incomes immediately after breakfast.  A maester was en route from the Citadel.  Originally, they had planned to send her Maester Walder, a former Frey.  She had responded with a terse letter saying that if he arrived on her doorstep, she would return them his head.  Upon much discussion, the Citadel had finally produced some Dornishman to send her.  Sansa did not really care, as long as they sent her no Freys and no westermen.  
   
***  
   
Wylla Manderly blew into Sansa’s sitting room, cheeks flushed and giggling.  Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark, Unella Umber, and the other ladies looked up at her, surprised.  
   
“Your Grace,” Wylla sketched a bow in Sansa’s direction.  “Ladies,” she continued, eyes sparkling, “can we take our embroidery outside today?”  
   
“But it’s so cold today!” Sansa objected.  This hour with her ladies-in-waiting was the only time of the day where she felt truly relaxed, except at night when Sandor slipped into her bed.  The rest of her time was spent with lords and with her council.  
   
She was proud of the women she had begun to amass at her court.  The Northern lords had already sent her six girls to foster, whom she was expected to find husbands for when the time came.  She took her duty to them seriously, determined not to be a guardian such as Cersei Lannister.  _You’ve another weapon between your legs…_ she remembered, and was hard pressed not to make a face.   
   
She wanted a lively court, filled with fosterlings, balls, singers, and other amenities.  She was not sure why Eddard Stark had chosen to make his so austere.  To her great delight, her steward had spoken with a young musician who, he had assured her, composed religious music so lovely that even the hearts of the gods must melt before it.  The man’s name was Ludwig something-or-another.   She had been told he was blind.  Sansa had agreed to meet with him on the morrow, but if he lived up to half of what she had heard she meant to accept him into her court as his patron.  
   
Wylla Manderly laughed.  “But it is such a beautiful day, Your Grace.  The guards are practicing outside, and they are talking of putting a hunt together.”   
   
Sansa understood.  She was not overly fond of hunts, but she knew many of her ladies were.  And girls would frequently gather together to watch the guards practice, giggling in admiration.  It always made Sansa sad, reminding her of herself when she first went to Kings Landing.  She and Jeyne would steal lemon cakes and giggle over the men at court.  Jeyne had such a crush on Beric Dondarrion, she remembered sadly.  The girl had retreated quietly into the silent sisters after Sansa came North, at her own request.  
   
“Why not?” she said, rising.  The other women smiled indulgently as the young girls giggled and gathered up their embroidery.   
   
The air was brisk outside, but the women sat down on comfortable chairs on a balcony, where they could see the sweaty guards practicing.  Emmon Snow, a bastard son of Lord Glover’s, had been hired on as Winterfell’s new master-at-arms.  He used the presence of the women to great effect upon his recruits, jeering mistakes and asking if they would be shamed before the women.  _It is a glorious day._  
   
Suddenly, they heard shouting at the castle gates.  Sansa stood up anxiously.   
   
“What has happened?” she called out.   
   
The guards at the gates were speaking loudly, and pandemonium reigned.  Finally, a boy came running.   
   
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, “t-the Imp is at the gates!”  
   
The women gasped.  Sansa noticed that below, the men were putting on their helms and tightening gauntlets.   
   
“Who has he come with?” Sansa asked quietly.  
   
“About twenty men, Your Grace.  They wear strange spiked caps.”  
   
 _Unsullied._ “There is no dragon?”   
   
“No, Your Grace. They are only riding horses.”  
   
 _Thank the gods for small favors._ She descended the steps quickly.  
   
“Emmon,” she said softly, “Sandor, listen to me.  We will let his party through the gates.  Perhaps he means no harm to me.”  Sandor made a scoffing sound, and Sansa frowned at him.  
   
“Be that as it may,” she went on, “I will wait for him in the great hall on the high seat.  If he has come to ask me for an annulment or to negotiate on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen, I will speak with him.  If he has come for some… darker reason, neither he nor his escort should leave Winterfell alive.”  
   
Emmon spoke first.  “It will be as you say, Your Grace.  But… the Targaryen queen may not take it too well if you kill her Imp.”  
   
Sansa looked at him levelly.  “No,” she agreed.  “She might not.  But once he’s dead, there’s no bringing him back, now is there?”  
   
***  
Sansa sat in the high seat of the Starks.  While she only wore one of her everyday woolen dresses, she was satisfied that she looked queenly.  Sandor Clegane and Brienne of Tarth flanked her on either side.  Rows of heavily armed guardsmen lined the walls of the great hall.   
   
Tyrion Lannister waddled into the room with one guard.  Emmon had refused to allow the Unsullied into the castle.  Tyrion was given the choice between speaking with Sansa on her terms, or leaving.  Sansa had two hundred armsmen in Winterfell, who confronted the angry Imp with drawn swords.  
   
She did not stand for Tyrion.  Leaning forward in her seat, she studied him.  Studied the hideous pustules that were a dead giveaway of the pox.  _No surprise that, with all his whoring._  
   
“Lannister,” she said softly, in a voice that carried.  “Why have you come here?”  
   
The Imp’s eyes were fixed on Sansa.  He seemed unaware of the danger he was in.  
   
“My sweet little wife,” he grinned.  “Does a wife need to ask her husband why he has come home?”  
   
 _Oh, dear. This does not look like it will end well._  
   
Sandor drew his sword, with a ringing sound of metal on leather.  The sound was echoed around the room by the other guards.  
   
“I am no wife of yours, _Imp,_ and well you know it.”  
   
“I should be hurt by that, sweetling.  You said the vows, and then you left in Kings Landing.”  He moved closer to the throne.  “How many men have been fooled by that innocent face of yours?  I took you for a naïve child, and here I find you, consorting with dogs and…”  
   
“Careful, Imp!” Ser Emmon spoke, this time.  
   
Tyrion grinned again.  “Would you stand between a man and his wife?  The man who comes between a man and his wife is accur…”  
   
Brienne and Sandor looked at Sansa.  She nodded shortly.  Suddenly, steel was flashing.  Tyrion’s head bounced off the wall and rolled, finally stopping at the base of the high seat where Sansa sat.


	6. Chapter 6

Daenerys Targaryen slid off her dragon in Winterfell’s courtyard, ignoring the horrified gasps of the people around her.  After the disappearance of Tyrion and his Unsullied guards, she had considered her every move carefully.  Sansa Stark was said to be a great beauty, and a perfect lady.  _A true Westerosi noble lady.  The kind of lady in the songs_.  Dany had scoffed at the stories, but nonetheless she felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of intimidation, the sort that made her move cautiously. 

She wore a beautiful lavender silk dress that was cut just low enough to hint at cleavage, but did not expose anything.  An enormous amethyst glittered between her breasts, and more amethysts adorned ears, fingers, and wrists.  It all was eclipsed by the crown she wore.  Featuring the three-headed Targaryen dragon, it had been a gift from the people of Qarth so long ago.

She patted Drogon’s neck lightly, whispering soothing words to him.  The Unsullied stood at attention before her in the courtyard, and Ser Grandfather joined her.  A stout man strode up to her.

“Your Grace, I am Edmund Small and the steward of Winterfell.  You are welcome here.”

 _He doesn’t lack for courage,_ she thought.  Most men were terrified of her dragons.

She smiled at him.  “Alas, good master, I have not come on a social call.  I am here to see the Lady Sansa.”

The man bowed.  “The queen awaits you within, Your Grace.  If you would follow me?”

Dany followed reluctantly with Ser Barristan right behind her, choosing not to reprimand the man for his use of Sansa’s treacherous title.  She knew full well what was going on here.  _They must have had word of our coming._

Down the hallway from the great hall of the Starks, Dany heard the strains of some beautiful music.  She had never heard the like before.  _I wonder where she found the likes of this singer._

Within the room she found four men and women sitting around a table, speaking quietly.  _At least she does not dare to wait for me in the high seat._

At the echo of her footsteps, the strangers stood.  The crown clearly identified Sansa Stark.  Despite herself, Daenerys was impressed, and somewhat intimidated.

The woman before her wore a dress of brown silk.  It was embroidered with tiny white jasmine flowers, and embellished with pink Myrish lace at the hem, sleeves, and neckline.  Beautiful auburn hair was arranged in a complicated knot at the back of Sansa’s head and simple pearls hung from her ears.  She wore no other jewelry but the crown.

With her was a woman with long green hair that had been neatly plaited.  _Wylla Manderly,_ Dany knew.  She recognized Sandor Clegane, a tall armored man with a hideously scarred visage, broad shoulders, and arms like tree trucks.  _No noble lady would ever let a man such as this into her bed. The stories must be lies._ The maester was Dornish, a smiling man with a pointed chin, widow’s peak, and dense curls. 

The woman inclined her head and the others around her bowed deeply. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” said Sansa Stark.  She clapped her hands together.  “Beth!”

A skinny young girl appeared out of nowhere, holding a small tray of bread and salt.  Dany dipped a small piece of bread into the salt and nibbled at it.  Gratefully, she took a small sip of the proffered wine.  Sansa Stark was watching her.  _If I look back I am lost._

“Lady Sansa,” Dany said.  Sansa said nothing in response, only raised a single eyebrow. 

“Lady Sansa,” she repeated, feeling foolish.  “Where is Tyrion Lannister?”

“Tyrion?” Sansa said innocently.  “How should I know?”

_She is playing stupid.  Does she think that I am a fool?_

“Yes, Tyrion.  What have you done with him and my Unsullied who rode with him?”

“Daenerys,” Sansa smiled, “I _may_ call you Daenerys, mightn’t I?”  Not waiting for a response, she continued.  “I have no idea what you mean.  I have not seen Tyrion Lannister since I was a mere child in Kings Landing.  And we have seen no Unsullied in Winterfell.”

Dany tried not to grind her teeth with frustration.  _I need him.  Perverse and despicable though the Imp may be,_ _I_ need _him._

“When you framed him for your murder of the boy Joffrey, is that right?”

“No,” Sansa responded evenly.  “Tyrion killed Joffrey.  I was rescued from Kings Landing that night by a childhood friend of my mother’s.”

Dany stared at her in disbelief.  _Does she think that Tyrion would not have told me the truth?_

Sansa spread her hands out in front of her.  “We should not quarrel like this in the middle of the great hall, Your Grace.  Will you dine with us?  My cook’s made a perfectly divine pork pie today.  Lord Manderly’s own cook sent us the recipe.”

Dany’s eyes met Ser Barristan’s.  He gave a discreet nod, so subtle that the others might have missed it. But Dany had a feeling that Sansa missed very little.

Reluctantly, Dany followed Sansa Stark and her advisers up the stairs and into a small sitting room. Ser Barristan took his position behind Dany’s chair after holding it for her, and Sandor Clegane did the same for Sansa.  Dany did not miss the sparks flying between Clegane and Ser Barristan.  Nor did she miss Sansa’s fingers brushing lightly over Clegane’s arm as she looked into his eyes, the moment before she took her seat.

 _So the stories are true._ Dany felt suddenly frustrated, wondering if they had been audacious enough to kill Tyrion.  _But he had the Unsullied with him.  What has she done?_

Sansa smiled warmly at her.  “So, Daenerys, I have heard that you were quartered in Harrenhal for a time.  A castle under a curse, that one.”

With that opener, Dany found herself conversing with the Northern girl.  Sansa kept the conversation flowing smoothly over chunks of pork pie and a fine red wine.  The Dornish maester Alleras asked about the dragons and their training.  The pretty Lady Wylla discreetly inquired as to why she had an army of eunuchs serving her, jesting naughtily as to how useful they could be.  As they spoke, she found that she did not entirely agree with Tyrion’s comments on Sansa.  _“A lovely girl,”_ he had said, _“and very good at making people feel at ease.  But not too bright, that one.”_ Dany thought that anyone who thought that this woman was stupid might just live to regret it.  _Ice cold, this one._   At last, dinner was cleared away, lemoncakes were served with tea, and Dany forged ahead to the point.

“Sansa, it has been a pleasure speaking with you but I fear that now we must speak again of less pleasant things.”

Sansa Stark arched a cool eyebrow at her and waited calmly.  Dany strived for queenly composure.

“Will you, or will you not, swear to the Iron Throne?”  Dany suspected that it might come to war with House Stark.  She did not expect Lady Sansa to yield easily.

“Why would I do that?” Sansa asked. “The Targaryen dynasty was deposed for good reason.  Your brother Rhaegar abducted, raped, and murdered my aunt Lyanna.  Your father Aerys murdered my grandfather Lord Rickard and my uncle Brandon.”  She took a sip of wine, before meeting Dany’s eyes firmly.

“Winterfell and Riverrun do not recognize the legitimacy of your claim to our territory, Daenerys.  You are queen on the Iron Throne, and we gladly will congratulate you on regaining the Iron Throne.  But we will not yield so much as a fingertip worth of the North or the Riverlands to be subjugated to House Targaryen.”

Alleras twitched but said not a word.  Lady Wylla’s eyes burned into Dany, but she too remained silent.  Dany quivered all over with fury.  She rose from the table.

“Thank you, _Lady_ Sansa, for your hospitality.  It has been a pleasure to meet you, and your courtiers.  Now, we must tell you this.  You have one week to consider your decision.  We expect either the return of Tyrion Lannister and his entire Unsullied escort, or their murderers to face our justice.  We expect your submission to us and your acknowledgement of us as your queen.”  She smiled at Sansa icily. 

“One week, my lady, before we return.  We look forward to meeting you again.”

Not waiting for a response, Dany turned on her heel and walked out, with Ser Grandfather behind her.

***

“Pork pie, Sansa?” Sandor rasped, raising an eyebrow at her as he pulled her close.

Sansa giggled.  “Lord Manderly said that it would taste like triumph and so it did.” She gasped, trying to squirm away from him.  “Sandor, stop that.”

“Stop what?” he murmured harshly, mouth hot on her throat.  His fingers fumbled with her laces and Sansa quivered. 

“That!” she exclaimed, pushing his shoulders. He let go of her and she straightened up, color high in her cheeks.

“Would you pour us some wine so we can talk?” she asked.  Sandor went over to the sideboard, returning with two full glasses of wine.  Sansa took a grateful swallow before sinking into the chair.  Sandor eyed her pensively.

“Sansa, what do you mean to do about this dragon queen’s demands?”

She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples.  “I don’t know, Sandor, truly.  Tyrion is dead and burnt, along with his escort, and I have no intention of handing you or any other of my armsmen over to her.”

“And her demands for your submission?”

Sansa frowned, tapping her fingers against her lips.  The moments dragged by slowly.  At last, she stood and faced him.

“Summon Arellas and the Lady Wylla and ask them to meet me here in my sitting room.  We have ravens to send out to the rest of the North.”

***

Brandon Stark sat in the small cave focused on the one-eyed man in front of him, surrounded by the embracing limbs of the weirwood.  All about Bran, the threads of his own weirwood had already begun to grow.  _Soon I will be like him._

Suddenly he realized that Bloodraven had broken off and was staring at him with disapproval.  He blushed then.

“I-I’m sorry, my lord,” he stammered.  Bloodraven gave an exaggerated sigh.

“One would think you would pay more attention child, with something that concerns your sister and your House so closely.  To say nothing of the entire world!”

Bran felt heat climbing up from his collar.  Bloodraven glowered at him.

“Do you want to see your sister swear to Daenerys Targaryen, then?  Or answer for her murder of the Imp?”

“N-no,” Bran said. 

“Good,” Bloodraven declared.  “Because _I_ don’t want her to do so, and because we need a dragon for our cause.”

***

Dany sat Drogon’s back firmly, in the special saddle Tyrion had devised for her.  She had decided to take this ride to survey the lands beyond the Wall and to pay the Night’s Watch a visit.  She thought very little of the ragtag band of black brothers that had greeted her, but they had acknowledged her as their queen and for that alone she felt satisfied.

She was still angry from her experience with Sansa Stark.  Sansa’s defiance, her use of the royal plural, and the fact that Dany was certain that she had murdered Tyrion along with his entire escort, all left her preparing to break the Stark girl and the Northern powers.  She had heard that Sansa was sending messages to the Northern lords, and an army of wildlings was amassing in Winterfell.

 _Let her call them, let them come.  None of them can stand against Drogon._ She patted the dragon’s back gently.  _Or Unsullied._

Then, it began. 

Dany found herself suddenly struggling to hold on to Drogon despite the saddle.  He was rolling through the air, and fire was all about them.  Below them, even the trees were aflame but she scarcely noticed.  She was too fixated on trying to calm her dragon, shouting in High Valyrian and cracking her whip. 

It felt like hours on the back of the madly twisting dragon.  Then, she heard a snap.  _My saddle girth._

The ground rushed up to meet Daenerys Targaryen.  In the distance, she heard a wolf howling.

_One thousand eyes and one._

***

Sansa sat quietly in her sitting room with her own small council.  She had invited Lord Manderly, Lord Umber, and Lady Mormont to join them as well.  Rickon sat quietly in a chair of his own.  Sansa felt that it was important for him to begin to learn the task of rule as her only heir, and as the new Lord of the Dreadfort.

Daenerys Targaryen had vanished beyond the Wall.  Nobody knew exactly what had happened, but the forests had burned for days.  Sansa had breathed a deep breath of relief, but things were not done yet.  The Lannisters were ruined, but she still needed to secure Riverrun.  And for that she needed an army, one that she currently did not have. Even the wildlings camped before the gates of Winterfell were not enough, alone.  And every one of the lords had some idea, most of which were poorly thought out, as to how she could retake it.

“Your Grace,” Maege said quietly.  “I would put a suggestion to you, with your leave.”

Sansa eyed her and nodded.  She had come to trust Lady Maege and value her advice.

“Your Grace,” the leathery woman said, “your grandfather made marriage alliances in time of war that joined armies as well as Houses.”  Sansa suddenly had a terrible premonition as to where this was going.

“There is a fresh army, Your Grace, but it would come with a marriage.  If you would consider King Harrold Arryn of the Vale…” Sansa exploded from her seat.

“I-I cannot,” she said.  Her laces felt too tight.  Maege seemed utterly unperturbed.

“Your Grace, I’m afraid it’s a question between this marriage and regaining Riverrun.” 

Sansa sat back in her seat again, suddenly ashamed of her sudden show of emotion.  She took a swallow of wine.

“Lord Petyr is in the Vale,” she said in carefully controlled tones.  The lords exchanged looks.  Lord Petyr’s involvement in Lord Eddard’s betrayal, and the abuse of young Jeyne, were well known.  Lord Manderly spoke first.

“At every wedding a head is sacrificed, Your Grace.” He grinned at her, showing teeth.  “The bride’s maidenhead, if she still has it.”  Blushing, Sansa tried not to squirm beneath the lecherous grin.  “Of late, weddings have taken a darker turn. An alliance between the King in the Vale, and the Queen of the North and the Riverlands is no small thing, Your Grace.  Do you think King Harrold would not be willing to send you a head for that?”


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa’s hands pressed against his chest, her thighs clenching tightly as she pressed down onto him.  Her head had fallen back and she _moaned,_ a gasping sound of agony that reverberated about the room.  Her body was slick with sweat, her face flushed, her breasts jumping lightly with every movement she made.  But she was insensible to it all, gasping and twitching as she moved against him.

Suddenly, Sandor reached up and caught her hands, twisting them up as he flipped her over.  He caught hold of her shoulders and began to move roughly against her.  “Little _bird,_ ” he rasped into her hair, thrusting harder.  Sansa hooked her foot against the back of his leg, moaning and arching against him as he shuddered his pleasure against her. 

Afterwards, Sansa reluctantly pushed herself up out of the bed.  Her knees felt almost jellied, and she could feel his seed trickling down her thighs.  She reached for her nightdress and Sandor began to pull on his woolen hose.  Dawn had not yet broken, but Sansa knew it would be soon. 

“I cannot believe I will be married again today,” she said softly.  Sandor looked over at her as he began lacing up his boots.

“King Harrold is a lucky bugger,” was all he said.  Sansa got up and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and savoring the _feel_ of him.

“Do you think,” she whispered softly, “that he could ever make me feel the way that you do, when you touch me?”

Sandor said nothing and stroked her hair gently.  Then he released her. 

“I’ll tell Beth to summon your maids,” was all he said, before slipping out of the room.

Beth, Jeanne, and Marcia drew Sansa up a hot bath.  While Jeanne was laying out Sansa’s wedding clothes, Marcia and Beth helped her get in the tub.  Sansa let out a sigh of pure pleasure, wriggling her toes against the hot water.  Marcia stopped in her washing suddenly and reached out to touch the bruise on Sansa’s shoulder, and another on her breast.

“Your Grace,” the woman said firmly, “you cannot let the King see you like this tonight.  He will be angry and could call the whole marriage off.”

Sansa nodded quietly.  She had found Marcia to be a trustworthy servant who held her lady’s secrets close and helped her in all things.

“Can you cover it?” she asked.

“I’ll do my best,” her maid said, “but you might want to ensure that he has a good deal to drink at the feast.”  She smiled at Sansa and winked suddenly. 

“Jeanne and I will make sure the candles are dim in your chambers.  With all of us working together, His Grace will never notice a thing.”

Sansa laughed lightly.  She had no doubt that Harrold was stupid enough to have the wool pulled over his eyes easily.

Her maids got her out of the tub and into her girdle and silk shift, whereupon they brushed her hair until the curls shone.  Jeanne started to reach for the pins, but Sansa stopped her.

“I am a virgin bride today, Jeanne,” she said with a smile.  “I will wear my hair loose for the wedding.”

Instead, Jeanne took out the hairnet of sapphires and pearls, neatly confining her curls.  _Not a single curl now flyaway bit of frizz would dare defy Jeanne,_ thought Sansa wryly. The maids then began painting her face.  Jeanne used a red gloss to brighten Sansa’s lips, and a maiden flush was brought out in her cheeks with the help of some blusher that had been ordered from Lys.  When they finally brought out her looking glass, Sansa looked at her reflection and laughed.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “I scarcely recognize myself!”

Then the women brought out Sansa’s wedding dress.  She looked at it and shivered, as they began to lace her into it.  It was heavy blue samite, edged with the finest Myrish lace, and with a long train.  The bodice and skirts were decorated with pale pink pearls, and direwolves and leaping trout had been embroidered in silver thread.  Sansa had never before owned any dress so fine, nor did she recall Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn wearing its equal, and she had quailed before the cost.  But the visiting Northern Lords had insisted.  

Lord Manderly had solved the issue when he roared that the North was no impoverished backwater and their queen would go to her wedding dressed to eclipse the southron lord she deigned to marry.  He had been the loudest and most uproarious, but all the other lords stood firmly behind him.  The dress had been purchased, and a second one of equally fine quality for the dinner party afterwards.

Jeanne helped Sansa fasten her silk stockings and lace garters firmly in place, before slipping the finely made calfskin shoes with silver buckles onto Sansa’s feet.  They brought out Sansa’s jewels, a wedding gift from her counselors that had been made to match her hairnet.  Sapphire and pearls gleamed beautiful in silver rings, a heavy silver necklace, and earrings that fell all the way to her shoulders.  Then her crown was settled neatly into her hair.

At last, the maiden’s cloak came out, bearing the quartered direwolf and leaping trout.  Sansa stared at it, suddenly shuddering as she remembered the last time she had worn a maiden’s cloak.  _I tried to run from them, as though I could escape._ Jeanne and Marcia hung the cloak over her shoulders and fastened it with a silver direwolf pin that had two blinking sapphires for eyes.

“There, Your Grace,” said Marcia.  “Now you truly look the beautiful bride.”

***

Sansa stood outside of the sept, carefully schooling her features to remain neutral and reminding herself not to fidget anxiously.  _First the sept, then the godswood, just as we negotiated.  Then the wedding feast._

Sandor Clegane stood next to her in his finery.  All her guardsmen wore fine wool for their queen’s marriage, with direwolf badges embroidered on their breasts.  _I wish the Lady Brienne and Ser Hyle were here today._ They had announced their intention to marry and left for Tarth with Pod.  She had been pleased to see their backs when they left, but suddenly she felt as though so few stood with her who truly knew where she had come from.  _What am I saying?  The Lady Brienne knew me no more than any of the others here.  Sandor is the only one who went through Kings Landing with me._

The doors to the sept suddenly crashed open, and Harrold’s young serving man called out, “Sansa of the Houses Stark and Tully, the First of Her Name, Queen of Winter, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Lady of the North and the Riverlands, Protector of the Realm!”

_My cue._ Sansa began to move forward in a stately procession.  She was flanked on each side by Sandor Clegane and Emmon Snow.  Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark, and Wylla Manderly carried her train.  Rickon Stark walked behind her in Stark grey and white.  Sansa had chosen not to have him escort her down the aisle, saying grimly that she was a queen and that she would walk herself to her own wedding. In the front row of the sept, Sansa saw Lord Petyr sitting in sackcloth and chains.  Somebody had gagged him, and she felt a thrill of pleasure at the sight.

At last, she reached the altar and the septon waiting to marry her.  She looked nervously up into Harrold Arryn’s laughing eyes as he smiled down at her.  She had barely spoken to him and his counselors before this, jesting that she had a wedding to plan and a man should know his wife only after the wedding.

“Your Grace,” he whispered, reaching out to squeeze her hand.  Sansa smiled tentatively up at him, before they turned together and went to their knees in front of the altar.

The wedding moved as a dream.  As they had negotiated, there was no changing of the cloaks.  The ceremony made Sansa’s skin crawl, remembering Joffrey, and Lord Manderly had negotiated it all for her ahead of time.  Harrold wore a sky blue and cream cloak with a falcon embroidered on it.  Lord Manderly had arrogantly informed him that the queen was in need of no man’s protection, and that she would retain and rule her own holdings and estates just as Harrold would his.  Harrold’s children though… they would rule three kingdoms, and the prospect had been enticing enough for Harrold to drop any objections to the nontraditional wedding.  Lord Mormont had said that a ruling queen was made for breaking the rules, which Sansa had later been informed had caused her new lord husband to dissolve in uproarious laughter.

At last, the septon was done with his blathering.  Harrold took Sansa’s hands to lift her up, and then pulled her against him and kissed her soundly.  The applause from the Northern lords was thunderous.

_At least he is well pleased in this marriage.  Gods willing, may I keep him so._

She turned, hand resting lightly on the crook of her new husband’s elbow, to walk back down the aisle with him towards the godswood.  Lord Petyr’s eyes were fixed on her, but Sansa never directed her gaze towards him.

***

Back in her rooms, Sansa sighed tensely as her maids unlaced her.  Jeanne brought her a glass of wine while Marcia pressed a cool rag against her face.

“Are you ready for your wedding feast, Your Grace?” Jeanne asked laughingly.  Sansa nodded eagerly.

“I think I could eat the whole roast boar myself!” she exclaimed.  The women burst into laughter, which quickly cut off when Lady Maege entered the rooms.

“Your Grace,” Lady Maege said.  “Would you send your maids away for a moment?” 

Sansa nodded shortly, and Jeanne and Marcia quickly set down their things and left.  Sansa frowned.

“You too, Beth.”  The girl bowed quickly before scuttling from the room.

“My lady?” she said softly, feeling somehow vulnerable to be clad only in her undergarments before the imposing warrior lady.  Lady Mormont opened up her hands, and Sansa saw a small piece of bloody flesh and a small vial of blood.

“Take this, Sansa,” the lady said gravely.  “It is the liver of a sheep and sheep’s blood.  Before your new husband takes you to bed, dip the liver into the blood and insert it inside yourself.  The king will never know the difference; he will take you for a maid.”  Sansa was suddenly overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.  Unsure if what she felt was shame or gratitude, Sansa moved to touch Lady Maege’s feet but Maege caught her shoulders to stop her. 

“No daughter of Eddard and Catelyn should abase herself,” Maege scolded.  “You are a queen for the North to take pride in, and Harrold should be grateful to be so fortunate.”  She smiled suddenly.  “Let me help you into your dress, no need to call the maids back.”

The dress was just as beautiful and as fine as the blue samite.  It was brown samite, with gold thread embroidery depicting a direwolf holding a leaping trout within its mouth on the bodice.  Rubies and pearls had been neatly stitched all along the neck, hemline, and sleeves.  With Maege’s help, Sansa swapped out her silver jewelry for golden glimmering rings, heavy golden bangles, and ruby and pearl earrings and necklace.  At last, Maege looked at her with satisfaction. 

“You look truly a queen, my dear,” she said solemnly.  “Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn would be so proud of you, were they here today to watch you marry.”  Sansa felt herself shiver suddenly.

“Oh, _Maege,_ ” she whispered.  The lady came forward and enfolded Sansa tightly into her warm, comforting embrace. 

“Don’t weep, dearest,” she said.  “You are a lovely virgin bride on your wedding day.  Harrold will never know what hit him!”

***

Ludwig sat at his harp in a corner of the room, his blind filmy eyes unfocused as he sang in High Valyrian of the Maid seducing the Smith into marriage.  His rich baritone went out throughout the hall, sending chills down the spines of his listeners.  The girl he had apprenticed sat beside him with her lute, coming in on the chorus.  Despite her inexperience and youth, Sansa thought that she might prove to be Ludwig’s equal in skill one day.

Sansa sat beside Harrold at the high table.  They had barely had the opportunity to speak to each other, although Sansa felt his eyes hot on her with desire.  Even when he seemed to be speaking with Lord Royce, when Sansa thought it was safe to discreetly study her new husband, he would look her in the eyes and smile at her as she began to blush.

At the tables below, there was laughter and carousing.  Lord Umber had grabbed one of the kitchen girls and was dancing with the blushing girl around the hall, to shrieks of laughter.  Lord Petyr still sat in his gag and his chains, at the table nearest Sansa and Harrold.  When the feast was over he would be fed, Sansa supposed.  She wondered idly what her former mentor made of his student now.  _He will pay for my lord father’s life in blood, for my lady mother, for Arya, Robb, and Bran.  And for the marriage to Tyrion._   

She took a small bite of her fish, and nearly choked on it when she felt Harrold’s hand stroke her thigh lightly under the table.  She took a hasty swallow of wine, and then he slipped his hand into hers, stroking circles into the center of her palm.  She felt a surge of wetness between her thighs, and felt confused.  It seemed the wedding feast would never end but at last Harrold leaned toward her. 

“What do you say, Sansa?” he whispered.  “Shall we leave the feast?” 

Sansa quickly nodded, and then blushed. She had insisted that there would be no public bedding and Lord Manderly had won the day for her in the wedding contract, as he always did.  The jolly fat man’s interior was that of a cold, calculating politician who others frequently made the mistake of underestimating.  Sansa did not make this mistake, since the day when he attempted to make a claim in Rickon’s name against her.

Harrold stood up, bringing Sansa to her feet beside him.

“By your leave, my lords and ladies,” he said in a resounding voice, “my lady wife and I will take our leave so that we can know each other better.”

The hall erupted in jests and laughter.  Lord Manderly’s laughter was loudest of all, and Sansa felt Sandor Clegane’s expressionless eyes on her.  Her face was burning, but at last they were alone in their room. The maids had brought up a tray of cheese, dates, and olives, and filled a flagon of wine.  She blushed, looking up at him suddenly.

“Will you..” she paused, embarrassed.  “Will you help me unlace my dress?”

Harrold came behind her, and pushed her hair out of the way.  He gently kissed the back of her neck before he began to slowly pull the laces out of eyelets.  Sansa shivered, caught within a maelstrom of emotions.  She remembered the feeling of Sandor that morning, and he held her by the shoulders and took her so brutally, and she didn’t know how to respond to her new husband.

_This is Winterfell, this is Riverrun, this is vengeance for my lord father and my lady mother…_ Harry’s hand slipped inside of the front of her bodice to gently trace the contour of her breast.  Sansa jumped, and heard herself squeaking. 

“By your leave, Your Grace, I must change.” she smiled at him winningly.  Harrold let go of her.

“ _Harrold,_ not Your Grace, Sansa,” he chided her gently.  “A husband and wife may be more familiar than that!”

Nervously, Sansa scuttled into the next room.  Sliding out of all her undergarments, she carefully slipped into the beautiful sheer shift that had been made for her wedding night.  Then she took up Maege’s gifts, making a face at the blood.

When she finally came out of the room, Harrold had poured wine for both of them and settled into the bed to wait for her.  She climbed in next to her, and he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.

“Your people love you,” he observed.  Sansa smiled.

“Time under Lannister and Bolton rule left them longing for my father,” she said softly.  “I cannot fill Lord Eddard’s shoes, but I do my mere best.”  Harrold laughed.

“The fat lord you sent to negotiate, who came with the Lady Mormont and the Lord Umber.  All of them were strident, but the fat lord was the most interesting.  He told me that in the North the Starks are near to gods, and I would be wedding a goddess.”  Sansa began to giggle despite herself.

“He must have been drunk, which he is all too often,” she said.  Harrold pulled her close and then silenced her laughter with a kiss. 

***

Sansa sat in the high seat, with Harrold in the seat immediately below hers, that had been Lady Catelyn’s so many years earlier.  She carefully arranged her fine woolen skirts about her before leaning back in the seat.  Sandor stood directly behind her seat, and Harrold’s own guard captain, a man by the name of Nestor, stood behind his. 

“We will see the first petitioners,” she called out in a clear voice.  As had been prearranged, her brother Rickon entered the hall.  He looked fine at thirteen, dressed in the Stark grey and white.  He went to one knee before the high seat.

“Rickon Stark, Lord of the Dreadfort,” Emmon called out formally.  Sansa stood, bringing the rest of the court to their feet with her.

“Our dear brother,” she said softly.  “To what do we owe this honor?”

Rickon’s words echoed throughout the room, the words of the traditional oath of fealty in the North.  "Your Grace, my dearest sister.  I have come to pledge the faith of the Dreadfort to Winterfell. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, Your Grace. My swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to my weak, help to my helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you." He paused dramatically.  _I could hear a pin drop in this hall._

“I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, and by ice and fire.”

Sansa descended from the high seat, Harrold directly behind her.  Taking her brother’s hands in her own, she repeated the traditional acceptance and then kissed him on each cheek.  Harrold reached out and wrapped his arms around Rickon.  And with that, Rickon moved into the seat that had been reserved for him in the front.

The doors opened again, and Lord Petyr was dragged in by Emmon, Marcel, and two Arryn men who Sansa did not recognize.  Tension imbued her every tendon, but she leaned forward to study him closely.  She noted with satisfaction that his arm had been broken and somebody had given him a hell of a black eye, and then felt appalled at herself.  _When have I become so vicious?_ Beside her, Harrold stood.

“Our dearest lady wife,” he said in kingly tones that rang throughout the hall.  “When this wedding contract was made, you asked us for a wedding gift to seal the marriage.  Petyr Baelish, you told us, known as Littlefinger.  Petyr Baelish who betrayed Lord Eddard of House Stark to his death.  Petyr Baelish who abducted a girl in your household for unspeakable purposes.  Petyr Baelish who had arranged for your marriage to Tyrion of House Lannister, known as the Imp.  Petyr Baelish who betrayed Lady Catelyn Tully and King Robb Stark to their deaths.”  His hands swept out to indicate the man in front of him.  “Here he is, Your Grace, to deal with as you would.”  Sansa’s eyes glittered and then she leaned up, surprising him with a sudden kiss.

“We thank you, my lord husband,” she said firmly before moving down the steps to where Littlefinger lay on the ground before her.  Kneeling down, she tore the gag away from his mouth.

“Well, my lord?” she asked.  “You’ve heard the charges.  Do you have a response to them?”

Lord Petyr began to struggle to move to his knees, until Emmon planted his foot in the center of his back and he fell flat to the floor again.

“I _saved_ you,” he whispered.  “I took you from Kings Landing, where you would have died for murdering Joffrey.  When Lysa would have killed you, I saved you.  For the love of your mother, I risked myself to get you out of Kings Landing, to take you away from the Imp, to keep you safe from the Lannisters.  How has it come to this pass?”  Sansa knelt down beside him to whisper in his ear.

“See how well your student has learned, _Father?_   Do you truly think I’d let you live, after all that you’ve done?”  She rose to her feet.

“For your crimes, my lord, I, Sansa of the Houses Stark and Tully, the First of my Name, Queen of Winter, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Lady of the North and the Riverlands, and Protector of the Realm do sentence you to die.”  She gestured to the men.  “Take him!”

The men lifted the frightened Lord Petyr to his feet.  In response to his babbled protests, Emmon punched him in the jaw with a gauntleted fist.  Sansa flinched at the sight of the blood, steeling herself as she followed the men outside, her husband right behind her.

_Whatever you do, sweetling, always keep your hands clean… the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword…_ she felt the eyes of the assembled lords on her, and knew what she had to do.  _I am their queen and I must be a king to them._

Sandor went to one knee in front of her, presenting her a package in nondescript brown woolen wrappings.  When they fell away, the crowd drew in their breath.  Sansa lifted the sword out.  Rubies blinked from the lion’s eyes, and red ran down the blade.

“One half of Ice, my lord father’s sword,” she called out.  “It went south with him to Kings Landing and the rest remains with the boy king Tommen.  This,” she waved the sword above her head, “is Lord Petyr’s work.  What he has done to Ice, and to the Houses Stark and Tully.”  She turned to face the pale Littlefinger, where he had been forced down on the block.

“In the North, my lord,” she said charmingly, “Ice will be your death.”

Sansa Stark’s smile was the last thing that Petyr Baelish ever saw, before the steel flashed.

***

Sansa sat in her sitting room with Harrold and their lords.  She had been forced to order a larger table, but it was a small price to pay.  _Riverrun will be mine!_

Harrold, Bronze Yohn, Lord Umber, and Sandor were leaning over a map. 

“So you see, Your Grace,” Lord Umber rumbled, “we’ll take our Northmen up this way and hit the Twins from here.”  His finger, thick as a sausage, pointed to the map.  “Sandor will take five thousand horse and hit them from this side.  Then you’ll…”  Bronze Yohn clapped with sudden delight. 

“I’ll take ten thousand horse and hit here… on this side,” he said excitedly.  “We’ll take…”

“No,” Sansa said, suddenly rising.  The men broke off and stared at her.

“I want the Twins burned and all the inhabitants put to the sword,” she said firmly.  Harrold nearly choked.

“My love, the bridges…” he began.

“No,” Sansa said again firmly.  “I want them _dead._ ”  Everyone in the room exchanged glances.  Harrold broke the silence.

“It is for the best,” he said.  “The Freys broke guest right and are cursed in the eyes of gods and men.  In that case, the wildfire…” the conversation continued but Sansa barely heard.  Lord Walder doddered on, despite his murder of her lady mother and her brother at the Twins.  _I will make him pay for the Red Wedding, in blood,_ she thought with mounting excitement. 

At that moment, a guardsman entered the room and immediately went to his knees before her.

“Your Grace,” he said. “I’ve just received word from the south.  Cersei Lannister and her son, Tommen Baratheon, have heard of your marriage.  They’ve raised an army and they are marching on Riverrun!”

In the distance, a wolf howled.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa’s eyes followed Harry as he left the royal pavilion, but she said not a word.  Looking down at the map, she wondered how quickly after rallying his troops he would head off to visit his mistress. Sansa was still seething silently over how he had taken the woman on campaign with them, but she said not a word.  _It is the price I must pay for Riverrun.  For my mother’s honor, for my mother’s House.  I cannot abandon Riverrun to the Lannisters and the Freys._

Thoughtfully, she tapped a finger against her lip.  She would not see Harry again that night, this much she knew from experience.  He had the good sense to make an effort at discretion before her lords, knowing that humiliating her publicly would not be well received, but not enough sense to leave the woman in the Vale until his return. 

At last, she made up her mind.  She shook out the heavy woolen cloak and wrapped it around herself, tying the hood around her face, before she reached up to unfasten the tent straps.  Sandor was standing outside on guard duty. 

“I-I want to take a walk,” she said, with unaccustomed shyness.  “Will you escort me?”

Surprise flickered across his face, before it shut down again and she could no longer read his expression.  Silently, he offered Sansa his arm and they began to walk together through the tents. 

All about them was the hustle and bustle of a military camp preparing for battle.  Sansa saw a camp follower running between the tents with a young man behind her, both laughing.  A cookpot was smoking over a fire, and northmen were dicing and drinking ale.  Other men were polishing armor and sharpening swords.  She slowed suddenly, listening to the mountain men.

“A toast!” a drunken man called out, standing.  He took a bow to his fellows, ale sloshing from his tumbler.  “A toast to the she-wolf of Winterfell!”

“The Sansa!” male voices roared.  Ale was sloshing over the sides of glasses as they swallowed.  Another man stood. 

“And may she keep Lord Falcon firmly by his balls!” he shouted.

“Lord Falcon!” came renewed shouts.

Sansa’s mouth twitched and she looked up at Sandor before beginning to giggle helplessly.  “They will be drunk by morning,” she said, as she urged him forward.  He grinned, the scarred mouth twisting.

“Fortunately, they have no battle to fight on the morrow.  Your Grace, the king must be waiting for you.  Don’t you wish to return to the pavilion now?” 

Sansa sighed, feeling suddenly that she could unburden her heart to him.  “Why should I?  The king is visiting Lady Else tonight, and I do not expect him back before the morrow.”  Sandor looked down at her as they entered a less busy part of the encampment. 

“Do you wish him dead, then, little bird?” he asked her softly.  Sansa laughed and stopped suddenly beneath the large oak tree, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her body against him.  She felt a sudden thrill as his breeches stiffened against her.

“Not dead,” she whispered in a sultry voice.  “But I do want to see him horned.”  Reaching up, she pulled Sandor’s head down to hers.

His mouth was hungry and rough.  Sansa sighed before letting a sudden squeak as he lifted her up against the tree, pausing to fumble at his breeches.  She wrapped her arms around him, letting out a moan when he entered her. 

***

Sansa sat at the table, pushing the needle through the grey silk.  She was too nervous to pay much attention to the other women or to Ludwig, hands sliding across his harp as he sang some new composition of a blue rose blossoming in ice.  Ever since Sandor, Harry, and her lords had rode out to lead the army against the lions, Sansa had been on edge.

_This is for my father.  Cersei Lannister must never take me again._

She hissed suddenly, realizing the thread had broken.  Her father’s face stared out at her accusingly from the tapestry, half-embroidered, in a scene that depicted him kneeling in prayer before Winterfell’s weirwood.  Suddenly, they heard the sound of riders coming from outside the royal pavilion.  Sansa dropped her embroidery hoop and rushed outside, her astonished ladies behind her.  Then she stopped in shock, bringing her hands to her mouth.

“We did it, Your Grace!” shouted Nate, Emmon’s squire.  But Sansa barely heard him.  She was transfixed by Sandor, dismounting from his horse and pulling a woman down from the saddle. 

“Your Grace,” Emmon went to one knee, yanking a boy down in front of him.  Tommen Baratheon looked frightened and pale, but he bowed gracefully.

“Lady Sansa, it has been long since we last met,” the boy said nervously. 

“That it has,” Sansa agreed, hardly noticing which courtesy she spoke.  Emmon had yanked a sword out of the sheath and raised it in the air.  _Widow’s Wail._ Sansa suddenly felt that she could throw her arms around Emmon and kiss him as she took the sword from him, but it would hardly be proper.

Sandor had a grip on Cersei’s arm as he pulled her forward, throwing her to the ground at Sansa’s feet.  _She is weeping,_ Sansa realized with some surprise.  _I do not have to fear her ever again.  She lies in front of me on the ground, and she is weeping._ It was as though an enormous weight came off her shoulders.  For the first time since she watched her father’s head roll across the steps of Baelor’s Sept in Kings Landing, Sansa felt like she could breathe. 

“Take her into my tent,” Sansa said softly.  “There is wine on the sideboard in there.  Tell Jeanne to bring some food.  There should be some of that roast duck left from luncheon still.  Send that to her with some oranges and give her some water to wash up.”  She eyed Cersei critically, adding, “She needs a fresh dress as well.  I will be there in due course.”

Sandor lifted Cersei to her feet, but the former queen twisted in his grasp.  “My son!” she cried out.  “Tommen…”  Sansa looked at her coldly for a moment, before raising her eyes to meet Sandor’s.  In response to the unspoken command, he lifted Cersei off the ground and carried her into the tent.

Sansa looked at Emmon.  “Take Tommen to my lord husband’s tent,” she said firmly.  “I want him surrounded by guards.  He is not to be lost.”  Her voice softened and then she smiled at Emmon, exhilarated.  “You have done well!”

Emmon went to one knee before he came back to his feet again.  “The She-Wolf of Winterfell!” he shouted.  “The Queen of Winter!”

The rallying men took up the cry.  “The Queen of Winter!” voices boomed around her.

_“The Queen of Winter!”_

_THE QUEEN OF WINTER!”_

***

Cersei Lannister came to her feet as Sansa entered the tent.  Her face had been washed and her hair neatly confined.  The dress the maids had given her was simple, a fine wool dress in plain brown.  Sansa felt like purring with satisfaction as she regarded Cersei.

“My son,” the words rushed out.  “What have you done to Tommen?  You killed his brother but you cannot kill Tommen!”  Sansa’s brows drew together sharply.

“I have done nothing to Tommen, nor will I,” she said, pouring herself wine.  She took a seat in a finely upholstered chair, neatly arranging her skirts.  “Have you taken note of the rug, my lady?” 

Cersei looked confused for a moment, before her eyes dropped to the rug.  It was beautiful, and Sansa had requested it especially from Harry.  The entire skin of a golden lion, with the head still attached.  Sansa had declared that it would be a harbinger of her victory, if Harry could hunt down the lion, and so he had.  She smiled at Cersei, who was staring at her dully.

“It seems to me that you asked for such a rug once, my lady.  But we were unable to accommodate your needs for a wolf pelt, mores the pity.  You are now a lion amongst wolves.  Tell me, how does it feel now that the shoe is on the other foot?  Should I find you a dwarf to wed?”

Cersei’s mouth opened and closed, before she regained control.  “I treated you like you were my own daughter,” the former queen said fiercely.  “I fed you, clothed you, let you play with my children…” Sansa laughed, a frightening sound low in her throat, before she came to her feet.

“No, you did not.  You killed my father.  You allowed your son’s guards to beat me.  My clothes fit poorly and grew ragged.  You came for me with guards to carry me to the altar for Tyrion.  How dare you say that you treated me like your daughter?  _How dare you_?”  Sansa realized that she was breathing heavily.

The tent flaps opened and Harry came in.  Sansa crossed over to him and stood on her tip toes to kiss him.  Laughing, he crushed her against his chest before releasing her.  He wrapped a comforting arm around her, and together they turned to face Cersei.  Tears were running down her cheeks again.

“Sansa, all I ask is mercy for my son,” the woman whispered.  Despite herself, Sansa felt sudden pity.  Harrold spoke roughly.

“Well, my lady, no harm will come to the Pretender from us.  We have negotiated with King Aegon regarding our borders and establishing a treaty between our lands.”  He smiled that disarming smile, so full of charm.  “We have agreed to send Tommen to him, a gift from one king to the next.”

Sansa smiled poisonously.  “You, however, will stay with me in Winterfell, my lady.  My special guest.  Won’t it be lovely?  I expect you’ll find Winterfell a kinder place to stay than I found Kings Landing.”


	9. Chapter 9

_FIVE YEARS LATER_

Arya lay flush against Jaqen, head pillowed on his chest, feeling utterly relaxed for the first time in weeks.  She had begun to feel tense ever since they entered the North, childhood memories flooding her, memories that did not belong to “No One” but to Lady Arya of House Stark.  Memories of riding with her lord father and lady mother to visit this lord or that, of snowball fights with Sansa, of Jon ruffling her hair and Bran climbing… _so many memories._ A sudden sense of sorrow flooded her, and she shifted slightly.

Jaqen ran his hands lightly through her hair.  “A girl seems sad,” he observed.  Despite herself, Arya smiled.

“A girl remembers things she should not,” she rejoined.  It was Jaqen’s turn to smile. 

  
“Aye,” he said.  And then, to Arya’s surprise, “I went back once, you know?”

“You did?” Arya said curiously.  It took all her training to maintain her body’s limpness, refusing to let any sign of her physical tension bleed through to give her innermost thoughts away.

“Yes.  It was many years ago and… oh, you don’t want to know the story,” he said abruptly. 

 _But I do!_ Arya’s innermost being cried out.  Nonetheless, she kept herself still and her face clear of her thoughts.  If Jaqen wanted to tell her his story, he would.  Until he did, she would never know a word.

“Are you sure that you can face your sister?” he asked abruptly, changing the subject.  Arya felt the tension begin to knot up her spine again.

“Of course,” she said.  “I haven’t seen Winterfell since I was nine years old.” Her voice grew sad.  “There was a light summer snow, and Sansa and I chased each other with snowballs.”  She let her voice trail off.  _Jaqen does not need to know all my secrets._

There was no judgment in her mentor’s eyes, only sympathy.  “She will not be the same as when you knew her, just as you are no longer the same.  You will look into her eyes and see a different person, one you do not know or understand, and one who does not know or understand you.”

Arya’s soul cried out against his words.  _Sansa,_ she thought, _Sansa who was always so kind and who did everything so perfectly, the perfect beauty, the perfect lady.  Septa Mordane said that I should be more like her and…_

“What person stays the same?” she asked gently.  Jaqen seemed mollified.

“We’ll change our faces tomorrow,” he said.  Arya only nodded, before laying her head back down wordlessly.

  
***

Sansa knelt before the giant weirwood, head bowed in silent prayer.  She never felt so close to the gods as she did at this time, when she prayed for the souls of her lost family.  For Lord Eddard, beheaded before her eyes; for Lady Catelyn and her brother Robb, dead by Frey treachery; for Bran, dead in some unmarked grave beyond the Wall; for little Arya, dead in Kings Landing.  In the godswood, Sansa prayed for them all. 

When at last she rose to walk back to the castle, the dawn light had begun shining through the clouds.  Her breasts had begun to swell painfully with milk and she knew that little Eddard would be hungry.  She was pensive and lost in her thoughts as she walked, but the sudden clamor from the courtyard drew her.  Little hands yanking on her skirts caught her attention, drawing her out of her reverie.

“Mama, mama!” the small girl shouted excitedly.  There are two Pentosi merchants at the gates!” 

Despite herself, Sansa smiled to see the innocent child’s excitement.  It reminded her so much of the years so long ago…. “What are they selling, sweetling?”

“Dyes, they said,” babbled Catelyn.  “Dyes from Lys, and bolts of silk and lace!” 

Sansa smiled.  The merchants would be welcome with their wares; Winterfell’s artisans would buy a great deal.  _I might buy a cask or two of dye, and perhaps a bolt of silk._

“Let’s go, Cat,” she said softly.  “Where is your sister?”  She was surprised that Arya was not already there.  The twins were inseparable. 

“Oh, she went to take a closer look at the merchants,” Catelyn said, blue Tully eyes sparkling.  Sansa furrowed her eyebrows and then laughed, taking Catelyn by the hand.

***

Maisie climbed down from her horse, short brown hair blowing against her cheeks, and looked around.  All was as it had been in her childhood, yet all was different.  She saw men in the practice yard, and then stiffened.  _So it_ is _true.  The Hound is in Sansa’s service.  I wonder if the rest – no, that could not be true._

A little girl, no more than four, was staring at her.  Maisie realized that, with those eyes of Tully blue and flowing auburn hair, the girl must be one of the Stark princesses.  _They said that she has twins, and that she just had a son…_ Maisie had not been able to learn more.

Jaqen smiled at the child.  “Little princess!” he called to her.  “Come here!”  The girl came out, thumb in her mouth, watching them wide-eyed.  Maisie found herself smiling at the dirty smock, knowing that her sister would be annoyed. 

  
“What is your name, little princess?” Jaqen asked. 

The girl giggled.  “I’m Princess Arya,” she lisped.  Maisie stiffened, and a bolt of long-forgotten pain went straight through her heart.

“A pretty name for a pretty princess,” Jaqen said.  “Do you know why they chose it?”

“My lady mother the queen had a sister named Arya but she died in the south.  The Lannisters killed her.”

Maisie blinked back tears suddenly.  She barely heard Jaqen, as he brought out a foreign sweet from Lys for the little girl.  When she looked up, a large man was there and her spine went rigid.

“Princess,” he said in a familiar rasp.  “Your lady mother is looking for you.”  Arya curtsied, grinned at Jaqen, and then ran.  Maisie and Jaqen were left alone with the Hound.  Maisie studied him very closely.  _Something is wrong, something about the way he spoke to her…_ she couldn’t put her finger on it, but the overwhelming sense of wrongness left all her trained senses alert.  Sandor Clegane looked at her, and suddenly Maisie felt that he would know her.  _I am such a stupid girl, of course he doesn’t know me with this face._

As expected, the Hound inclined his head to her.  “The steward is on his way,” he rasped.  “Her Grace the queen will be happy to see you and your dyes.”

***

Sansa sat in her receiving room, studying the bolts of wool.  “A fine dye this,” she said, admiring the deep blue color.  The merchants looked delighted.  The Northern dyemakers could not produce so fine a dye with so solid a color, and they knew it.  _I do hope they make regular trips to Winterfell._  She looked at Edmund and nodded.

Edmund grinned happily.  “A glass of wine, then, to a bargain well-struck!” he exclaimed.  Pretty Beth came with her crystal flagon to refill all the glasses.  _I wonder if there is some young man she likes.  I must remember to speak with her soon and ask if she wants to marry._

They raised their glasses and swallowed deeply, and then Maisie set her glass down.  “With Your Grace’s leave, I wonder if we might see the castle?” she asked.  “I visited Winterfell many years ago before the war, when Lord Eddard was ruling here.”

Sansa smiled at the merchant, feeling a sudden sense of loss.  “But of course,” she said, rising from the table.  “Edmund, will you walk with us?”

As they walked down the hallway, Jaqen spoke.  “Your Grace must be very lonely without the king.”  Sansa laughed lightly.

“Winterfell does seem more empty when my lord husband is absent,” she lied.  “But his duties in the Vale keep him quite busy.  His Grace will travel to Riverrun in two months, and the children and I will meet him there.”  She felt suddenly tired, thinking of the stress of the upcoming journey, the separation from Sandor, the tension that playing the dutiful wife left her with…”

Maisie stopped before a wall hung with beautiful tapestries.  Sansa smiled sadly.  She had worked on it with her ladies for nearly three years during their free time.  It featured scenes from Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn’s wedding, a panel with her brothers and sister and their wolves, the royal party in Kings Landing… _All dead and gone, all of them.  Rickon and I are the only ones left._

“You made these, Your Grace?” the merchant woman said.  “The embroidery is exquisite.”  A look passed between Maise and her husband, a look that Sansa could not read and was not sure that she liked.  _What a silly woman I am.  They just want to sell me more cloth._

“Thank you, Maisie,” she said evenly.  “The work is mine but also that of my ladies.  Winterfell’s old tapestries were burned when the kraken and the flayed man sacked and burned the castle.  Eight thousand years of history lost.  We are working on more.”

Jaqen looked up at her.  “We will have to make another trip to Winterfell, now that we know the sort of goods Your Grace would like.  We will bring you thread in gold and silver, samite, so many beautiful things for the direwolf queen to recapture Winterfell’s history.”

Sansa smiled, relieved that her thoughts were proven correct.  “You are welcome in Winterfell at any time you choose to visit us, especially with goods such as you describe!”  Her voice was gracious, controlled, even.  “If you will excuse me, I must go check in with Maester Sarella.  Edmund will take you through the rest of the tour.  Would you do me the honor of dining at the high seat with me for the evening meal?”

The merchants bowed on cue, perfectly correct.  “We would be honored, Your Grace,” said Jaqen. 

***

Maise sighed, studying her hair in the mirror to be sure it was just so.  Then she reached reluctantly for the woolen dress.  Behind her, Jaqen laughed.

“A man wonders why his wolf girl has worn nothing but dresses since we reached Winterfell,” he said. 

Maisie glared at him.  “I’m no wolf girl,” she said stubbornly.  “Come help me with these laces.  I am Maisie the dye merchant with her husband, selling dyes in Winterfell.”

Jaqen took the laces in his hands, beginning to pull them stiff.  “No.” His voice was firm.  “You are as stubborn as the wolf, and always have been.  More so in Winterfell’s walls.  Maisie the dye merchant wears breeches, woolen breeches with long tunics, and carries a short sword at her waist.  The wolf girl in Winterfell does not.”

 _He is right.  I am changed within the walls of Winterfell._ Maisie felt suddenly vulnerable.  It was an emotion she hated, and one she had not felt for many years, not since she entered the House of Black and White. 

“Sansa would like it,” she admitted.  “When we were girls together, I used to go muddy and in breeches whenever I could and it would make her so mad.”  The tears were rolling down her cheeks.  “We fought so much, over so many silly things, and if I could go back and change it I would.” 

Jaqen wrapped his arms around her, his hand gently rubbing her shoulders.  “I could see the pain in your face, when you were looking at the tapestries.”

“Did she see?” asked Maisie.

“No.  The queen is gracious and perceptive, but she doesn’t have our training.  She knew something was strange, but not what.”  His voice was soothing to all Maisie’s senses.  “It always hurts, to go back.  I used to dream of going back for years.  When I did, I found that they had mourned me, grown past the pain, and moved on.  I found that _home_ wasn’t my place anymore.”

Maisie twisted up to look at him.  “That is exactly it.  I have dreamed of Winterfell for so long, but it isn’t my place anymore.  Arya Stark is dead and lost.  The only Arya Stark who lives now is that little princess, the heir to Riverrun.  But there is no place in Winterfell for Aunt Arya, murdered by Lannisters in Kings Landing along with Lord Eddard.  Her bones are dried and gone to dust, and all that is left are the memories.”

“Just so,” Jaqen said.  “It is something that each and every Faceless Man learns.”

That startled her.  “But the House of Black and White doesn’t want us to go back?”

“But we all do,” he said.  He laughed at the look on her face.  “Maisie, we are all people.  Honed and redirected into weapons, but still people.  We all go back and they know we do.  But they know well that our old place is gone, and that our only place now is with them.”

That made her angry, but she said nothing.  Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around him and squeezed.

“Are you ready for dinner, wolf girl?” 

Maisie smiled.  “I could eat a direwolf, I’m so hungry!” she declared.

***

Sandor held Sansa’s chair for her.  The seductive smile she gave him before she took her seat made the blood run to his head.  It was a promise of things to come and thoughts of her bare skin dappled in moonlight filled his head.  _I wonder if she will want to slip out to the godswood tonight._ The last time she had suggested it, ferocity had filled her and she had left his knees weak and his head muddled for nearly a week afterwards.  

He took his seat, appropriately near the lower end of the table.  Arya and Catelyn sat on Sansa’s right and left, hands and cheeks glowing red from the stern septa’s scrubbing and resplendent in brown silk.  Immediately below them sat the visiting merchants.  They made him nervous, especially the woman.  Maisie’s eyes were calculating whenever she looked at him.  They evaluated, cast judgment, and he was found wanting.  They reminded him of the eyes of so many women he had seen before her in Kings Landing.  _I hope those merchants leave soon, but Sansa was so happy to have them come._

Nearby, Ludwig’s hands strummed over his harp.  There was a cacophony of sound in the great hall, the blind musician’s music mixing with the laughter of children, the sound of armsmen talking, a servant girl squealing and squirming away as her bottom was pinched, dogs growling and snapping, hoping to find a bite of food from some sympathetic diner.  _She has brought it back, all of it._ Even when Eddard was lord in Winterfell, the castle had not been so alive. 

Lady Cersei came in, accompanied by the stern-faced septa who was her companion night and day.  She made a curtsey to Sansa before taking a seat.  Beside Sandor, the merchant woman stiffened.

“I thought she had been executed long ago!” the woman blurted. 

Sandor looked at her curiously, wondering why a foreign merchant would be so very surprised.  “The queen said that the gods reward mercy and that she would not repay an eye for an eye,” he responded roughly.  “But truly, I think it would have been more merciful to kill her and be done with it.  The woman spends all her days in prayer for her lost children, and weeps continuously.”

Jaqen looked at him searchingly.  “I heard the dragons found their way to Casterly Rock, after the Targaryen girl vanished.”

“They did,” Sandor confirmed.  “Some say a curse was placed on the Lannisters, for all they did.  Would-be dragonslayers travel to Casterly Rock to try to root them out of the castle.  All of them die, of course.”  He took a swallow of wine, hoping not to think of it.  Sometimes he had dreams of dragons, and fire, and the sound of Gregor’s laughter.  The merchant woman looked at him curiously.

“What of the Baratheon children, Cersei’s by King Robert?” she asked curiously. 

Sandor shrugged.  “We took Tommen with Cersei, after the Battle for Riverrun,” he rasped.  “The queen and her lord the king chose to send him to King Aegon in the south.  His Grace saw fit to present Tommen’s head as a gift to his sister Myrcella on their wedding day.”

Maisie shuddered.  “I had heard talk that the Baratheon girl had wed King Aegon, but truth be told I had not believed it,” she said softly.  “That is a cruel tale but I suppose it was no crueler than what happened to the Starks and the Tullys during the War of Five Kings.”

Sandor shrugged, trying to push away the memories.  _The world is cruel, and you should well know it,_ he wanted to say.  He kept the thought to himself though.  Sansa hated it when he said such things.

***

Sansa sat quietly in her silk shift, reading the tale of Florian and Jonquil.  Prince Eddard was fast asleep in his bed at the foot of hers, and she did not have the heart to send him to his own room with his nurse.  _He looks like his father – and like mine!_ She knew her secret was dangerous and could bring war between her two territories and the Vale, but she felt a thrill of pleasure every time Harrold arrive for a conjugal visit of state with Lady Else at his side.  _He shames me and thinks the direwolf has no claws._

The door opened, and she looked up.  Sandor was looking down at her, his scarred face twisted in a mockery of a smile.  He caught her arms, lifting her from the bed.

“I saw your face at dinner.  Were you wet for me then, little bird?”

Sansa felt a sudden ache between her thighs at the rough words.  “I was wet for bolts of cloth and casks of dye,” she answered coyly.  He snarled, lifting her up and she wrapped her legs around him.  She heard herself gasping softly as he pressed her against a stone wall, fingers sliding the beneath her smallclothes to explore her.

“Do bolts of cloth and casks of dye do this to you, little bird?”  His hands jerked, suddenly tearing the smallclothes from her.  Sansa writhed in his grasp, barely able to move as he pressed her harder against the wall.  “Or _this?”_ A single, effortless shift and he was inside of her.  Sansa barely heard the sounds issuing from her throat, sensation warring with the knowledge that they mustn’t wake the babe. 

Afterwards, they lay in the bed, naked bodies entwined.  Sansa sighed, shifting against him.  “Did you think there was something strange about the merchant woman, Sandor?” she asked. 

He shrugged, muscles rippling.  “She was surprised to see Cersei.  Thought she was dead.”

Sansa laughed.  “They say a Lannister pays his debts – but I haven’t even begun to pay mine.”  She rolled over, staring up at the ceiling.  “Do you think my father would be very angry, to see what’s become of me?”

Sandor’s face was expressionless.  “You restored Winterfell and Riverrun and took revenge on the Lannisters,” he rasped.  “You took Littlefinger’s head.  Your lord father rests in peace now, because of you.”

They were the words Sansa had wanted, though she hadn’t known it.  She leaned up to kiss him.  “You will never leave me.” Her voice was strong, authoritative, a queen’s voice.  “Not me, or your children.  I promised Harry that I’d send Eddard to the Vale when he turns twelve, but until then…” her voice broke suddenly.

He pressed her back into the bed, his mouth rough on hers.  “Where would I go, little bird?  My place is at your side.”


End file.
